m 

WOODLAND  QUEEN 


ANDRE  THEURIET 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Lawrence  DraDer  Jr, 


A  Woodland  Queen 

(<%EINE  <DES  SO/5) 
By    ANDRE   THEURIET 

Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 

With  a  Preface  byMELCHIOR  DE 
VOGUE,  of  the   French  Academy 

NEW   YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 
1910 

COPYRIGHT  1905 

BY 

ROBERT  ARNOT 

COPYRIGHT  1910 

BY 
CURRENT  LITERATURE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


LOAN  STACK 
GIFT 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

LAUDE-ADHEMAR-ANDRfe 
THEURIET  was  born  at  Marly- 
le-Roi  (Seine  et  Oise),  October  8, 1833. 
His  ancestors  came  from  Lorraine .  He 
was  educated  at  Bar-le-Duc  and  went 
to  Paris  in  1854  to  study  jurisprudence. 
After  finishing  his  courses  he  entered 
the  Department  of  the  Treasury,  and 
after  an  honorable  career  there,  resigned  as  chef-de 
bureau.  He  is  a  poet,  a  dramatist,  but,  above  all,  a 
writer  of  great  fiction. 

As  early  as  1857  the  poems  of  Theuriet  were  printed 
in  the  Revue  de  Paris  and  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes. 
His  greatest  novel.  Reine  des  Bois  (Woodland  Queen), 
was  crowned  by  the  Academic  Franfaise  in  1890.  To 
the  public  in  general  he  became  first  known  in  1870  by 
his  Nouvelles  Intimes.  Since  that  time  he  has  published 
a  great  many  volumes  of  poems,  drama,  and  fiction.  A 
great  writer,  he  perhaps  meets  the  wishes  of  that  large 
class  of  readers  who  seek  in  literature  agreeable  rest  and 
distraction,  rather  than  excitement  or  aesthetic  gratifica- 
tion. He  is  one  of  the  greatest  spirits  that  survived  the 
bankruptcy  of  Romanticism.  He  excels  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  country  nooks  and  corners;  of  that  polite  rustic- 
ity which  knows  nothing  of  the  delving  laborers  of  La 

[v] 

547 


PREFACE 

Terre,  but  only  of  graceful  and  learned  leisure,  of  soli- 
tude nursed  in  revery,  and  of  passion  that  seems  the 
springtide  of  germinating  nature.  He  possesses  great 
originality  and  the  passionate  spirit  of  a  paysagiste  : 
pictures  of  provincial  life  and  family-interiors  seem  to 
appeal  to  his  most  pronounced  sympathies.  His  taste 
is  delicate,  his  style  healthy  and  frank,  and  at  the  same 
time  limpid  and  animated. 

After  receiving,  in  1890,  the  Prix  Vitet  for  the  ensem- 
ble of  his  literary  productions,  he  was  elected  to  the 
Academy  in  1896.  To  the  stage  Theuriet  has  given 
Jean-Marie,  drama  in  verses  (Odeon,  February  n, 
1871).  It  is  yet  kept  on  the  repertoire  together  with  his 
Maison  de  deux  Barbeaux  (1865),  Raymonde  (1887),  and 
Les  Maugars  (1901). 

His  novels,  tales,  and  poems  comprise  a  long  list.  Le 
Bleu  et  le  Noir  (1873)  was  also  crowned  by  the  Academy. 
Then  followed,  at  short  intervals:  Mademoiselle  Guig- 
non  (1874);  Le  Mariage  de  Gerard  (1875);  La  Fortune 
d'Angele  (1876);  Raymonde  (1877),  a  romance  of  mod- 
ern life,  vastly  esteemed  by  the  reading  public;  Le 
Don  Juan  de  Vireloup  (1877);  S°us  B°is,  Impressions 
d'un  Forestier  (1878);  Le  Filleul  djun  Marquis  (1878); 
Les  Nids  (1879);  Le  fits  Maugars  (1879);  La  Maison 
de  deux  Barbeaux  (1879);  Toute  seule  (1880);  Sauva- 
geonne  (1880),  his  most  realistic  work;  Les  Enchante- 
ments  de  la  Foret  (1881);  Le  Livre  de  la  Payse  (poetry, 
1882);  Madame  Heurteloup  (1882);  Peche  de  Jeunesse 
(1883) ;  Le  Journal  de  Tristan,  mostly  autobiographical; 
Bigarreau  (1885);  Eusebe  Lombard  (1885);  Les  (Billets 
de  Kerlatz  (1885) ;  Helene  (1886) ;  Nos  Oiseaux  (beauti- 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

ful  verses,  1886);  La  Vie  Rustique  (1887);  Amour 
d'Automne  (1888);  Josette  (1888);  Deux  Sasurs  (1889); 
Contes  pour  les  Soirs  d'Hiver  (1890);  Charme  Danger- 
eux  (1891);  La  Ronde  des  Saisons  et  des  Mois  (1892); 
La  Charmeresse  (1893);  Fleur  de  Nice  (1896);  Bois 
Fleury  (1897);  Refuge  (1898);  Villa  TranquiUe  (1899); 
Claudette  (1900);  La  Petite  Derniere  (1901);  LeManu- 
scrit  du  Chanoine  (1902),  etc. 

Besides  this  abundant  production  Andre  Theuriet  has 
also  contributed  to  various  journals  and  magazines:  Le 
Moniteur,  Le  Musee  Universal,  U  Illustration,  Le  Figaro, 
Le  Gaulois,  La  Republique  Franchise,  etc.;  he  has  lec- 
tured in  Belgium,  Holland,  and  Switzerland,  and  has 
even  found  leisure  to  fill  the  post  as  Mayor  of  Bourg-la- 
Reine  (Seine  et  Oise),  perhaps  no  onerous  office  (1882- 
1900).  He  has  also  been  an  Officier  de  la  Legion 
d'Honneur  since  1895. 


de  TAcaddmie  Franchise. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 


PAGE 

THE  UNFINISHED  WILL  .    .    .      i 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  HEIR  TO  VIVEY 25 

CHAPTER  III 
CONSCIENCE  HIGHER  THAN  THE  LAW 51 

CHAPTER  IV 
THE  DAWN  OF  LOVE 80 

CHAPTER  V 
LOVE'S  INDISCRETION 105 

CHAPTER  VI 
LOVE  BY  PROXY 130 

CHAPTER  VII 
THE  STRANGE,  DARK  SECRET 155 

CHAPTER  VIII 
LOVE'S  SAD  ENDING 180 

CHAPTER  IX 

LOVE  HEALS  THE  BROKEN  HEART .208 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

MLLE.  DESROCHES 

CHAPTER  I 

/  \  PAGK 

LITTLE  THERESE 237 

CHAPTER  II 
A  NEW  FACE -243 

CHAPTER  III 
A  RUSTIC  WEDDING 253 

CHAPTER  IV 
A  BETTER  UNDERSTANDING 264 

CHAPTER  V 
THE  SON  MAKES  AMENDS 275 

CHAPTER  VI 
THE  PART  OF  INDISCRETION     .     .     . 282 

CHAPTER  VII 
COMPLICATIONS 290 

CHAPTER  VIII 
FLIGHT       296 

CHAPTER  IX 
FAMILY  QUARRELS 304 

CHAPTER  X 
THE  PRIX  DE  ROME 310 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XI 

PAGE 

THE  PEASANT  MAID 316 

CHAPTER  XII 
PROGRESS 324 

CHAPTER  XIII 
DELICATE  GROUND 326 

CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  TRIAL *     .  332 

CHAPTER  XV 
"THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL" 351 


[xi] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  UNFINISHED  WILL 

COWARD  the  middle  of  October,  about 
the  time  of  the  beechnut  harvest,  M. 
Eustache  Destourbet,  Justice  of  the 
Peace  of  Auberive,  accompanied  by 
his  clerk,  Etienne  Seurrot,  left  his 
home  at  Abbatiale,  in  order  to  repair 
to  the  Chateau  of  Vivey,  where  he  was 
to  take  part  in  removing  the  seals  on 
some  property  whose  owner  had  deceased. 

At  that  period,  1857,  the  canton  of  Auberive,  which 
stretches  its  massive  forests  like  a  thick  wall  between 
the  level  plain  of  Langres  and  the  ancient  Chatillonais, 
had  but  one  main  road  of  communication:  that  from 
Langres  to  Bar-sur-Aube.  The  almost  parallel  adjacent 
route,  from  Auberive  to  Vivey,  was  not  then  in  existence; 
and  in  order  to  reach  this  last  commune,  or  hamlet,  the 
traveller  had  to  follow  a  narrow  grass-bordered  path, 
leading  through  the  forest  up  the  hill  of  Charbonniere, 
from  the  summit  of  which  was  seen  that  intermingling 
of  narrow  gorges  and  wooded  heights  which  is  so  char- 
acteristic of  this  mountainous  region.  On  all  sides 
were  indented  horizons  of  trees,  among  which  a  few, 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

of  more  dominant  height,  projected  their  sharp  out- 
lines against  the  sky;  in  the  distance  were  rocky  steeps, 
with  here  and  there  a  clump  of  brambles,  down  which 
trickled  slender  rivulets;  still  farther,  like  little  islands, 
half  submerged  in  a  sea  of  foliage,  were  pastures  of 
tender  green  dotted  with  juniper  bushes,  almost  black 
in  their  density,  and  fields  of  rye  struggling  painfully 
through  the  stony  soil — the  entire  scene  presenting  a 
picture  of  mingled  wildness  and  cultivation,  aridity 
and  luxuriant  freshness. 

Justice  Destourbet,  having  strong,  wiry  limbs,  as- 
cended cheerily  the  steep  mountain-path.  His  tall, 
spare  figure,  always  in  advance  of  his  companion,  was 
visible  through  the  tender  green  of  the  young  oaks, 
clothed  in  a  brown  coat,  a  black  cravat,  and  a  very  high 
hat,  which  the  justice,  who  loved  correctness  in  de- 
tails, thought  it  his  duty  to  don  whenever  called  upon 
to  perform  his  judicial  functions.  The  clerk,  Seurrot, 
more  obese,  and  of  maturer  age,  protuberant  in  front, 
and  somewhat  curved  in  the  back,  dragged  heavily  be- 
hind, perspiring  and  out  of  breath,  trying  to  keep  up 
with  his  patron,  who,  now  and  then  seized  with  com- 
passion, would  come  to  a  halt  and  wait  for  his  sub- 
ordinate. 

"I  trust,"  said  Destourbet,  after  one  of  these  inter- 
vals which  enabled  the  clerk  to  walk  by  his  side,  "I 
trust  we  shall  find  Mattre  Arbillot  down  there;  we 
shall  have  need  of  his  services  in  looking  over  and  filing 
the  papers  of  the  deceased." 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  answered  Seurrot,  "the  notary  will 
meet  us  at  the  chateau;  he  went  to  Praslay  to  find  out 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

from  his  associates  whether  Monsieur  de  Buxi&res  had 
not  left  a  will  in  his  keeping.  In  my  humble  opinion, 
that  is  hardly  likely;  for  the  deceased  had  great  con- 
fidence in  Maitre  Arbillot,  and  it  seems  strange  that  he 
should  choose  to  confide  his  testamentary  intentions  to 
a  rival  notary." 

"Well,"  observed  the  justice,  "perhaps  when  the 
seals  are  raised,  we  may  discover  an  autograph  will  in 
some  corner  of  a  drawer." 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  so,  Monsieur,"  replied  Seurrot; 
"I  wish  it  with  all  my  heart,  for  the  sake  of  Claudet 
Sejournant,  for  he  is  a  good  fellow,  although  on  the 
sinister  bar  of  the  escutcheon,  and  a  right  jolly  com- 
panion." 

"Yes;  and  a  marvellous  good  shot,"  interrupted  the 
justice.  "I  recognize  all  that;  but  even  if  he  had  a 
hundred  other  good  qualities,  the  grand  chasserot,  as 
they  call  him  here,  will  be  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
hedge  if  Monsieur  de  Buxieres  has  unfortunately  died 
intestate.  In  the  eye  of  the  law,  as  you  are  doubtless 
aware,  a  natural  child,  who  has  not  been  acknowledged, 
is  looked  upon  as  a  stranger." 

"Monsieur  de  Buxieres  always  treated  Claudet  as 
his  own  son,  and  every  one  knew  that  he  so  considered 
him." 

"Possibly,  but  if  the  law  were  to  keep  count  of  all 
such  cases,  there  would  be  no  end  to  their  labors; 
especially  in  all  questions  of  the  cu]us,  Odouart  de 
Buxieres  was  a  terribly  wild  fellow,  and  they  say  that 
these  old  beech-trees  of  Vivey  forest  could  tell  many  a 
tale  of  his  exploits." 

[3] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

"He,  he!"  assented  the  clerk,  laughing  slyly,  and 
showing  his  toothless  gums,  "there  is  some  truth  in 
that.  The  deceased  had  the  devil  in  his  boots.  He 
could  see  neither  a  deer  nor  a  pretty  girl  without  flying 
in  pursuit.  Ah,  yes!  Many  a  trick  has  he  played  them 
— talk  of  your  miracles,  forsooth ! — well,  Claudet  was  his 
favorite,  and  Monsieur  de  Buxieres  has  told  me,  over 
and  over  again,  that  he  would  make  him  his  heir,  and  I 
shall  be  very  much  astonished  if  we  do  not  find  a  will." 

"Seurrot,  my  friend,"  replied  the  justice,  calmly, 
"you  are  too  experienced  not  to  know  that  our  country 
folks  dread  nothing  so  much  as  testifying  to  their  last 
wishes — to  make  a  will,  to  them,  is  to  put  one  foot  into 
the  grave.  They  will  not  call  in  the  priest  or  the  no- 
tary until  the  very  last  moment,  and  very  often  they  de- 
lay until  it  is  too  late.  Now,  as  the  deceased  was  at 
heart  a  rustic,  I  fear  greatly  that  he  did  not  carry  his 
intentions  into  execution." 

"That  would  be  a  pity — for  the  chateau,  the  lands, 
and  the  entire  fortune  would  go  to  an  heir  of  whom 
Monsieur  Odouart  never  had  taken  account — to  one  of 
the  younger  branch  of  Buxieres,  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  having  quarrelled  with  the  family." 

"A  cousin,  I  believe,"  said  the  justice. 

"Yes,  a  Monsieur  Julien  de  Buxieres,  who  is  em- 
ployed by  the  Government  at  Nancy." 

"In  fact,  then,  and  until  we  receive  more  ample  in- 
formation, he  is,  for  us,  the  sole  legitimate  heir.  Has 
he  been  notified?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.  He  has  even  sent  his  power  of 
attorney  to  Monsieur  Arbillot's  clerk." 

[4] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  M.  Destourbet,  "in 
that  case,  we  can  proceed  regularly  without  delay." 

While  thus  conversing,  they  had  traversed  the  forest, 
and  emerged  on  the  hill  overlooking  Vivey.  From  the 
border  line  where  they  stood,  they  could  discover,  be- 
tween the  half-denuded  branches  of  the  line  of  aspens, 
the  sinuous,  deep-set  gorge,  in  which  the  Aubette 
wound  its  tortuous  way,  at  the  extremity  of  which  the 
village  lay  embanked  against  an  almost  upright  wall  of 
thicket  and  pointed  rocks.  On  the  west  this  narrow 
defile  was  closed  by  a  mill,  standing  like  a  sentinel  on 
guard,  in  its  uniform  of  solid  gray;  on  each  side  of  the 
river  a  verdant  line  of  meadow  led  the  eye  gradually 
toward  the  clump  of  ancient  and  lofty  ash-trees,  behind 
which  rose  the  Buxi&res  domicile.  This  magnificent 
grove  of  trees,  and  a  monumental  fence  of  cast-iron, 
were  the  only  excuse  for  giving  the  title  of  cMteau  to  a 
very  commonplace  structure,  of  which  the  main  body 
presented  bare,  whitewashed  walls,  flanked  by  two 
small  towers  on  turrets  shaped  like  extinguishers,  and 
otherwise  resembling  very  ordinary  pigeon-houses. 

This  chateau,  or  rather  country  squire's  residence, 
had  belonged  to  the  Odouart  de  Buxieres  for  more  than 
two  centuries.  Before  the  Revolution,  Christophe  de 
Buxieres,  grandfather  of  the  last  proprietor,  had  owned 
a  large  portion  of  Vivey,  besides  several  forges  in  opera- 
tion on  the  Aube  and  Aubette  rivers.  He  had  had  three 
children:  one  daughter,  who  had  embraced  religion  as 
a  vocation;  Claude  Antoine,  the  elder  son,  to  whom  he 
left  his  entire  fortune,  and  Julien  Abdon,  the  younger, 
officer  in  the  regiment  of  Rohan  Soubise,  with  whom 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

he  was  not  on  good  terms.  After  emigrating  and  serv- 
ing in  Conde's  army,  the  younger  Buxieres  had  re- 
turned to  France  during  the  Restoration,  had  married, 
and  been  appointed  special  receiver  in  a  small  town  in 
southern  France.  But  since  his  return,  he  had  not  re- 
sumed relations  with  his  elder  brother,  whom  he  ac- 
cused of  having  defrauded  him  of  his  rights.  The  older 
one  had  married  also,  one  of  the  Rochetaillee  family; 
4ie  had  had  but  one  son,  Claude  Odouart  de  Buxieres, 
whose  recent  decease  had  brought  about  the  visit  of  the 
Justice  of  Auberive  and  his  clerk. 

Claude  de  Buxieres  had  lived  all  his  life  at  Vivey. 
Inheriting  from  his  father  and  grandfather  flourishing 
health  and  a  robust  constitution,  he  had  also  from  them 
strong  love  for  his  native  territory,  a  passion  for  the 
chase,  and  a  horror  of  the  constraint  and  decorum  ex- 
acted by  worldly  obligations.  He  was  a  spoiled  child, 
brought  up  by  a  weak-minded  mother  and  a  preceptor 
without  authority,  who  had  succeeded  in  imparting  to 
him  only  the  most  elementary  amount  of  instruction, 
and  he  had,  from  a  very  early  age,  taken  his  own  pleasure 
as  his  sole  rule  of  life.  He  lived  side  by  side  with  peas- 
ants and  poachers,  and  had  himself  become  a  regular 
country  yeoman,  wearing  a  blouse,  dining  at  the  wine- 
shop, and  taking  more  pleasure  in  speaking  the  moun- 
tain patois  than  his  own  native  French.  The  untimely 
death  of  his  father,  killed  by  an  awkward  huntsman 
while  following  the  hounds,  had  emancipated  him  at 
the  age  of  twenty  years.  From  this  period  he  lived  his 
life  freely,  as  he  understood  it;  always  in  the  open  air, 
without  hindrance  of  any  sort,  and  entirely  unrestrained. 

[6] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

Nothing  was  exaggerated  in  the  stories  told  concerning 
him.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  jovial  and  dashing 
in  his  ways,  and  lavish  with  his  money,  so  he  met  with 
few  rebuffs.  Married  women,  maids,  widows,  any 
peasant  girl  of  attractive  form  or  feature,  all  had  had 
to  resist  his  advances,  and  with  more  than  one  the  re- 
sistance had  been  very  slight.  It  was  no  false  report 
which  affirmed  that  he  had  peopled  the  district  with 
his  illegitimate  progeny.  He  was  not  hard  to  please, 
either;  strawberry-pickers,  shepherd-girls,  wood-pilers, 
day- workers,  all  were  equally  charming  in  his  sight ;  he 
sought  only  youth,  health,  and  a  kindly  disposition. 

Marriage  would  have  been  the  only  safeguard  for 
him;  but  aside  from  the  fact  that  his  reputation  of  reck- 
less huntsman  and  general  scapegrace  naturally  kept 
aloof  the  daughters  of  the  nobles,  and  even  the  Langa- 
rian  middle  classes,  he  dreaded  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world  the  monotonous  regularity  of  conjugal  life. 
He  did  not  care  to  be  restricted  always  to  the  same 
dishes — preferring,  as  he  said,  his  meat  sometimes 
roast,  sometimes  boiled,  or  even  fried,  according  to  his 
humor  and  his  appetite. 

Nevertheless,  about  the  time  that  Claude  de  Buxi&res 
attained  his  thirty-sixth  year,  it  was  noticed  that  he 
had  a  more  settled  air,  and  that  his  habits  were  becom- 
ing more  sedentary.  The  chase  was  still  his  favorite 
pastime,  but  he  frequented  less  places  of  questionable 
repute,  seldom  slept  away  from  home,  and  seemed  to 
take  greater  pleasure  in  remaining  under  his  own  roof. 
The  cause  of  this  change  was  ascribed  by  some  to  the 
advance  of  years  creeping  over  him;  others,  more  per- 

[7] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

spicacious,  verified  a  curious  coincidence  between  the 
entrance  of  a  new  servant  in  the  chateau  and  the  sud- 
den good  behavior  of  Claude. 

This  girl,  a  native  of  Aprey,  named  Manette  Sejour- 
nant,  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  beauty,  but  she  had 
magnificent  blonde  hair,  gray,  caressing  eyes,  and  a 
silvery,  musical  voice.  Well  built,  supple  as  an  adder, 
modest  and  prudish  in  mien,  she  knew  how  to  wait  upon 
and  cosset  her  master,  accustoming  him  by  impercepti- 
ble degrees  to  prefer  the  cuisine  of  the  chateau  to  that 
of  the  wine-shops.  After  a  while,  by  dint  of  making  her 
merits  appreciated,  and  her  presence  continually  de- 
sired, she  became  the  mistress  of  Odouart  de  Buxieres, 
whom  she  managed  to  retain  by  proving  herself  im- 
measurably superior,  both  in  culinary  skill  and  in  senti- 
ment, to  the  class  of  females  from  whom  he  had  hitherto 
been  seeking  his  creature  comforts. 

Matters  went  on  in  this  fashion  for  a  year  or  so,  until 
Manette  went  on  a  three  months'  vacation.  When  she 
reappeared  at  the  chateau,  she  brought  with  her  an 
infant,  six  weeks  old,  which  she  declared  was  the  child 
of  a  sister,  lately  deceased,  but  which  bore  a  strange  like- 
ness to  Claude.  However,  nobody  made  remarks,  es- 
pecially as  M.  de  Buxieres,  after  he  had  been  drink- 
ing a  little,  took  no  pains  to  hide  his  paternity.  He 
himself  held  the  little  fellow  at  the  baptismal  font,  and 
later,  consigned  him  to  the  care  of  the  Abbe  Pernot, 
the  curate  of  Vivey,  who  prepared  the  little  Claudet  for 
his  first  communion,  at  the  same  time  that  he  instructed 
him  in  reading,  writing,  and  the  first  four  rules  of  arith- 
metic. As  soon  as  the  lad  reached  his  fifteenth  year, 

[8] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

Claude  put  a  gun  into  his  hands,  and  took  him  hunting 
with  him.  Under  the  teaching  of  M.  de  Buxifcres, 
Claudet  did  honor  to  his  master,  and  soon  became  such 
an  expert  that  he  could  give  points  to  all  the  hunts- 
men of  the  canton.  None  could  equal  him  in  tracing 
a  dog;  he  knew  all  the  passes,  by-paths,  and  enclosures 
of  the  forest;  swooped  down  upon  the  game  with  the 
keen  scent  and  the  velocity  of  a  bird  of  prey,  and  never 
was  known  to  miss  his  mark.  Thus  it  was  that  the 
country  people  surnamed  him  the  grand  chasserot,  the 
term  which  we  here  apply  to  the  sparrow-hawk.  Be- 
sides all  these  advantages,  he  was  handsome,  alert, 
straight,  and  well  made,  dark-haired  and  olive-skinned, 
like  all  the  Buxieres;  he  had  his  mother's  caressing 
glance,  but  also  the  overhanging  eyelids  and  somewhat 
stern  expression  of  his  father,  from  whom  he  inherited 
also  a  passionate  temperament,  and  a  spirit  averse  to 
all  kinds  of  restraint.  They  were  fond  of  him  through- 
out the  country,  and  M.  de  Buxieres,  who  felt  his 
youth  renewed  in  him,  was  very  proud  of  his  adroit- 
ness and  his  good  looks.  He  would  invite  him  to  his 
pleasure  parties,  and  make  him  sit  at  his  own  table, 
and  confided  unhesitatingly  all  his  secrets  to  him. 
In  short,  Claudet,  finding  himself  quite  at  home  at 
the  chateau,  naturally  considered  himself  as  one  of  the 
family.  There  was  but  one  formality  wanting  to  that 
end:  recognizance  according  to  law.  At  certain  fav- 
orable times,  Manette  S£journant  would  gently  urge 
M.  de  Buxieres  to  have  the  situation  legally  authorized, 
to  which  he  would  invariably  reply,  from  a  natural 
dislike  to  taking  legal  advisers  into  his  confidence : 

[9] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

"Don't  worry  about  anything;  I  have  no  direct  heir, 
and  Claudet  will  have  all  my  fortune;  my  will  and  tes- 
tament will  be  worth  more  to  him  than  a  legal  acknowl- 
edgment." 

He  would  refer  so  often  and  so  decidedly  to  his  set- 
tled intention  of  making  Claudet  his  sole  heir,  that  Ma- 
nette,  who  knew  very  little  about  what  was  required  in 
such  cases,  considered  the  matter  already  secure.  She 
continued  in  unsuspecting  serenity  until  Claude  de 
Buxieres,  in  his  sixty-second  year,  died  suddenly  from 
a  stroke  of  apoplexy. 

The  will,  which  was  to  insure  Claudet's  future  pros- 
pects, and  to  which  the  deceased  had  so  often  alluded, 
did  it  really  exist?  Neither  Manette  nor  the  grand 
chasserot  had  been  able  to  obtain  any  certain  knowl- 
edge in  the  matter,  the  hasty  search  for  it  after  the  de- 
cease having  been  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  the  mayor  of  Vivey,  and  by  the  proceedings  of  the 
justice  of  the  peace.  The  seals  being  once  imposed, 
there  was  no  means,  in  the  absence  of  a  verified  will, 
of  ascertaining  on  whom  the  inheritance  devolved,  until 
the  opening  of  the  inventory;  and  thus  the  Sejournants 
awaited  with  feverish  anxiety  the  return  of  the  justice 
of  the  peace  and  his  bailiff. 

M.  Destourbet  and  Stephen  Seurrot  pushed  open 
a  small  door  to  the  right  of  the  main  gateway,  passed 
rapidly  under  the  arched  canopy  of  beeches,  the  leaves 
of  which,  just  touched  by  the  first  frost,  were  already 
falling  from  the  branches,  and,  stamping  their  muddy 
feet  on  the  outer  steps,  advanced  into  the  vestibule. 
The  wide  corridor,  flagged  with  black-and-white  pave- 

[10] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

ment,  presented  a  cheerless  aspect  of  bare  walls  dis- 
colored by  damp,  and  adorned  alternately  by  stags' 
heads  and  family  portraits  in  a  crumbling  state  of 
decay.  The  floor  was  thus  divided:  on  the  right,  the 
dining-room  and  the  kitchen;  on  the  left,  drawing-room 
and  a  billiard-hall.  A  stone  staircase,  built  in  one  of 
the  turrets,  led  to  the  upper  floors.  Only  one  of  these 
rooms,  the  kitchen,  which  the  justice  and  his  bailiff 
entered,  was  occupied  by  the  household.  A  cold  light, 
equally  diffused  in  all  directions,  and  falling  from  a  large 
window,  facing  north  across  the  gardens,  allowed  every 
detail  of  the  apartment  to  be  seen  clearly;  opposite  the 
door  of  entrance,  the  tall  chimney-place,  with  its  deep 
embrasure,  gave  ample  shelter  to  the  notary,  who  in- 
stalled himself  upon  a  stool  and  lighted  his  pipe  at  one 
of  the  embers,  while  his  principal  clerk  sat  at  the  long 
table,  itemizing  the  objects  contained  in  the  inventory. 

In  the  opposite  angle  of  the  chimney-place,  a  lad  of 
twenty-four  years,  no  other  than  Claudet,  called  by  the 
friendly  nickname  of  the  grand  chasserot,  kept  company 
with  the  notary,  while  he  toyed,  in  an  absent  fashion, 
with  the  silky  ears  of  a  spaniel,  whose  fluffy  little  head 
lay  in  his  lap.  Behind  him,  Manette  Sejournant  stood 
putting  away  her  shawl  and  prayerbook  in  a  closet. 
A  mass  had  been  said  in  the  morning  at  the  church, 
for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  the  late  Claude  de  Buxieres, 
and  mother  and  son  had  donned  their  Sunday  garments 
to  assist  at  the  ceremony. 

Claudet  appeared  ill  at  ease  in  his  black,  tightly 
buttoned  suit,  and  kept  his  eyes  with  their  heavy  lids 
steadily  bent  upon  the  head  of  the  animal.  To  all 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

the  notary's  questions,  he  replied  only  by  monosyllables, 
passing  his  fingers  every  now  and  then  through  his 
bushy  brown  locks,  and  twining  them  in  his  forked 
beard,  a  sure  indication  with  him  of  preoccupation 
and  bad  humor. 

Manette  had  acquired  with  years  an  amount  of  em- 
bonpoint which  detracted  materially  from  the  supple 
and  undulating  beauty  which  had  so  captivated  Claude 
de  Buxieres.  The  imprisonment  of  a  tight  corset  caused 
undue  development  of  the  bust  at  the  expense  of  her 
neck  and  throat,  which  seemed  disproportionately  short 
and  thick.  Her  cheeks  had  lost  their  gracious  curves 
and  her  double  chin  was  more  pronounced.  All  that 
remained  of  her  former  attractions  were  the  caressing 
glance  of  her  eye,  tresses  still  golden  and  abundant, 
especially  as  seen  under  the  close  cap  of  black  net, 
white  teeth,  and  a  voice  that  had  lost  nothing  of  its  in- 
sinuating sweetness. 

As  the  justice  and  his  bailiff  entered,  Maitre  Arbillot, 
and  a  petulant  little  man  with  squirrel-like  eyes  and  a 
small  moustache,  arose  quickly. 

"  Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  he  cried.  "  I  was  anx- 
iously expecting  you — if  you  are  willing,  we  will  begin  our 
work  at  once,  for  at  this  season  night  comes  on  quickly." 

"At  your  orders,  Maitre  Arbillot,"  replied  the  justice, 
laying  his  hat  down  carefully  on  the  window-sill;  "we 
shall  draw  out  the  formula  for  raising  the  seals.  By 
the  way,  has  no  will  yet  been  found?" 

"None  to  my  knowledge.  It  is  quite  clear  to  me  that 
the  deceased  made  no  testament,  none  at  least  before  a 
notary." 

[12] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"But,"  objected  M.  Destourbet,  "he  may  have 
executed  a  holograph  testament." 

"It  is  certain,  gentlemen,"  interrupted  Manette,  with 
her  soft,  plaintive  voice,  "that  our  dear  gentleman  did 
not  go  without  putting  his  affairs  in  order.  '  Manette,' 
said  he,  not  more  than  two  weeks  ago;  'I  do  not  intend 
you  shall  be  worried,  neither  you  nor  Claudet,  when  I 
am  no  longer  here.  All  shall  be  arranged  to  your  satis- 
faction.' Oh!  he  certainly  must  have  put  down  his  last 
wishes  on  paper.  Look  well  around,  gentlemen;  you 
will  find  a  will  in  some  drawer  or  other." 

While  she  applied  her  handkerchief  ostentatiously  to 
her  nose  and  wiped  her  eyes,  the  justice  exchanged 
glances  with  the  notary. 

"Maitre  Arbillot,  you  think  doubtless  with  me,  that 
we  ought  to  begin  operations  by  examining  the  furni- 
ture of  the  bedroom?" 

The  notary  inclined  his  head,  and  notified  his  chief 
clerk  to  remove  his  papers  to  the  first  floor. 

"Show  us  the  way,  Madame,"  said  the  justice  to  the 
housekeeper;  and  the  quartet  of  men  of  the  law  followed 
Manette,  carrying  with  them  a  huge  bunch  of  keys. 

Claudet  had  risen  from  his  seat  when  the  justice  ar- 
rived. As  the  party  moved  onward,  he  followed  hesi- 
tatingly, and  then  halted,  uncertain  how  to  decide  be- 
tween the  desire  to  assist  in  the  search  and  the  fear  of 
intruding.  The  notary,  noticing  his  hesitation,  called 
to  him : 

"Come,  you  also,  Claudet,  are  not  you  one  of  the 
guardians  of  the  seals?" 

And  they  wended  their  silent  way  up  the  winding 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

staircase  of  the  turret.  The  high,  dark  silhouette  of 
Manette  headed  the  procession;  then  followed  the  jus- 
tice, carefully  choosing  his  foothold  on  the  well-worn 
stairs,  the  asthmatic  old  bailiff,  breathing  short  and 
hard,  the  notary,  beating  his  foot  impatiently  every 
time  that  Seurrot  stopped  to  take  breath,  and  finally 
the  principal  clerk  and  Claudet. 

Manette,  opening  noiselessly  the  door  of  the  de- 
ceased's room,  entered,  as  if  it  were  a  church,  the  some- 
what stifling  apartment.  Then  she  threw  open  the 
shutters,  and  the  afternoon  sun  revealed  an  interior 
decorated  and  furnished  in  the  style  of  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  An  inlaid  secretary,  with  white 
marble  top  and  copper  fittings,  stood  near  the  bed,  of 
which  the  coverings  had  been  removed,  showing  the 
mattresses  piled  up  under  a  down  bed  covered  with 
blue-and-white  check. 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  the  clerk  settled  him- 
self at  the  table  with  his  packet  of  stamped  paper,  and 
began  to  run  over,  in  a  low,  rapid  voice,  the  prelimi- 
naries of  the  inventory.  In  this  confused  murmuring 
some  fragments  of  phrases  would  occasionally  strike  the 
ear:  "Chateau  of  Vivey — deceased  the  eighth  of  Oc- 
tober last — at  the  requisition  of  Marie- Julien  de  Bux- 
ieres,  comptroller  of  direct  contributions  at  Nancy- 
styling  himself  heir  to  Claude  Odouart  de  Buxieres, 
his  cousin-german  by  blood 

This  last  phrase  elicited  from  Claudet  a  sudden 
movement  of  surprise. 

"The  inventory,"  explained  Maitre  Arbillot,  "is 
drawn  up  at  the  requisition  of  the  only  heir  named, 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

to  whom  we  must  make  application,  if  necessary,  for 
the  property  left  by  the  deceased." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  interrupted  by  a 
plaintive  sigh  from  Manette  Sejournant  and  afterward 
by  the  tearing  sound  of  the  sealed  bands  across  the 
bureau,  the  drawers  and  pigeonholes  of  which  were 
promptly  ransacked  by  the  justice  and  his  assistant. 

Odouart  de  Buxieres  had  not  been  much  of  a  scribe. 
A  double  Liege  almanac,  a  memorandum-book,  in  which 
he  had  entered  the  money  received  from  the  sale  of  his 
wood  and  the  dates  of  the  payments  made  by  his  farm- 
ers; a  day-book,  in  which  he  had  made  careful  note  of 
the  number  of  head  of  game  killed  each  day — that  was 
all  the  bureau  contained. 

"Let  us  examine  another  piece  of  furniture,"  mur- 
mured the  justice. 

Manette  and  Claudet  remained  unmoved.  They 
apparently  knew  the  reason  why  none  but  insignificant 
papers  had  been  found  in  the  drawers,  for  their  features 
expressed  neither  surprise  nor  disappointment. 

Another  search  through  a  high  chest  of  drawers  with 
large  copper  handles  was  equally  unprofitable.  Then 
they  attacked  the  secretary,  and  after  the  key  had  been 
turned  twice  in  the  noisy  lock,  the  lid  went  slowly  down. 
The  countenances  of  both  mother  and  son,  hitherto  so 
unconcerned,  underwent  a  slight  but  anxious  change. 
The  bailiff  continued  his  scrupulous  search  of  each 
drawer  under  the  watchful  eye  of  the  justice,  finding 
nothing  but  documents  of  mediocre  importance;  old 
titles  to  property,  bundles  of  letters,  tradesmen's  bills, 
etc.  Suddenly,  at  the  opening  of  the  last  drawer,  a 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

significant  "Ah!"  from  Stephen  Seurrot  drew  round 
him  the  heads  of  the  justice  and  the  notary,  and  made 
Manette  and  Claudet,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
start  with  expectation.  On  the  dark  ground  of  a  rose- 
wood box  lay  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  on  which  was 
written: 

"This  is  my  testament." 

With  the  compression  of  lip  and  significant  shake  of 
the  head  of  a  physician  about  to  take  in  hand  a  hopeless 
case  of  illness,  the  justice  made  known  to  his  two  neigh- 
bors the  text  of  the  sheet  of  paper,  on  which  Claude 
Odouart  de  Buxieres  had  written,  in  his  coarse,  ill-regu- 
lated hand,  the  following  lines: 

"Not  knowing  my  collateral  heirs,  and  caring  noth- 
ing about  them,  I  give  and  bequeath  all  my  goods  and 
chattels " 

The  testator  had  stopped  there,  either  because  he 
thought  it  better,  before  going  any  further,  to  consult 
some  legal  authority  more  experienced  than  himself,  or 
because  he  had  been  interrupted  in  his  labor  and  had 
deferred  completing  this  testifying  of  his  lasf  will  until 
some  future  opportunity. 

M.  Destourbet,  after  once  more  reading  aloud  this 
unfinished  sentence,  exclaimed : 

"Monsieur  de  Buxieres  did  not  finish — it  is  much  to 
be  regretted!" 

"My  God!  is  it  possible?"  interrupted  the  house- 
keeper; "you  think,  then,  Monsieur  Justice,  that  Clau- 
det does  not  inherit  anything?" 

"According  to  my  idea,"  replied  he,  "we  have  here 
only  a  scrap  of  unimportant  paper;  the  name  of  the 

[16] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

legatee  is  not  indicated,  and  even  were  it  indicated,  the 
testament  would  still  be  without  force,  being  neither 
dated  nor  signed." 

"But  perhaps  Monsieur  de  Buxieres  made  another?" 

"I  think  not;  I  am  more  inclined  to  suppose  that  he 
did  not  have  time  to  complete  the  arrangements  that 
he  wished  to  make,  and  the  proof  lies  in  the  very  ex- 
istence of  this  incomplete  document  in  the  only  piece 
of  furniture  in  which  he  kept  his  papers."  Then,  turn- 
ing toward  the  notary  and  the  bailiff:  "You  are  doubt- 
less, gentlemen,  of  the  same  opinion  as  myself;  it  will 
be  wise,  therefore,  to  defer  raising  the  remainder  of  the 
seals  until  the  arrival  of  the  legal  heir.  Maitre  Arbillot, 
Monsieur  Julien  de  Buxieres  must  be  notified,  and  asked 
to  be  here  in  Vivey  as  soon  as  possible." 

"I  will  write  this  evening,"  said  the  notary;  "in  the 
meanwhile,  the  keeping  of  the  seals  will  be  continued 
by  Claudet  Sejournant." 

The  justice  inclined  his  head  to  Manette,  who  was 
standing,  pale  and  motionless,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed; 
stunned  by  the  unexpected  announcement;  the  bailiff 
and  the  chief  clerk,  after  gathering  up  their  papers, 
shook  hands  sympathizingly  with  Claudet. 

"I  am  grieved  to  the  heart,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the 
notary,  in  his  turn,  "at  what  has  happened!  It  is  hard 
to  swallow,  but  you  will  always  keep  a  courageous 
heart,  and  be  able  to  rise  to  the  top;  besides,  even  if, 
legally,  you  own  nothing  here,  this  unfinished  testa- 
ment of  Monsieur  de  Buxieres  will  constitute  a  moral 
title  in  your  favor,  and  I  trust  that  the  heir  will  have 
enough  justice  and  right  feeling  to  treat  you  properly." 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

"I  want  nothing  from  him!"  muttered  Claudet,  be- 
tween his  teeth;  then,  leaving  his  mother  to  attend  to 
the  rest  of  the  legal  fraternity,  he  went  hastily  to  his 
room,  next  that  of  the  deceased,  tore  off  his  dress-coat, 
slipped  on  a  hunting-coat,  put  on  his  gaiters,  donned 
his  old  felt  hat,  and  descended  to  the  kitchen,  where 
Manette  was  sitting,  huddled  up  in  front  of  the  embers, 
weeping  and  bewailing  her  fate. 

Since  she  had  become  housekeeper  and  mistress  of 
the  Buxieres  household,  she  had  adopted  a  more  pol- 
ished speech  and  a  more  purely  French  mode  of  ex- 
pression, but  in  this  moment  of  discouragement  and 
despair  the  rude  dialect  of  her  native  country  rose  to  her 
lips,  and  in  her  own  patois  she  inveighed  against  the 
deceased : 

"Ah!  the  bad  man,  the  mean  man!  Didn't  I  tell 
him,  time  and  again,  that  he  would  leave  us  in  trouble! 
Where  can  we  seek  our  bread  this  late  in  the  day  ?  We 
shall  have  to  beg  in  the  streets!" 

"Hush!  hush!  mother,"  interrupted  Claudet,  sternly, 
placing  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "it  does  not  mend 
matters  to  give  way  like  that.  Calm  thyself — so  long 
as  I  have  hands  on  the  ends  of  my  arms,  we  never  shall 
be  beggars.  But  I  must  go  out — I  need  air." 

And  crossing  the  gardens  rapidly,  he  soon  reached 
the  outskirts  of  the  brambly  thicket. 

This  landscape,  both  rugged  and  smiling  in  its  wild- 
ness,  hardly  conveyed  the  idea  of  silence,  but  rather  of 
profound  meditation,  absolute  calm;  the  calmness  of 
solitude,  the  religious  meditation  induced  by  spacious 
forest  depths.  The  woods  seemed  asleep,  and  the  low 

[18] 


A, WOODLAND  QUEEN 

murmurings,  which  from  time  to  time  escaped  from 
their  recesses,  seemed  like  the  unconscious  sighs  ex- 
haled by  a  dreamer.  The  very  odor  peculiar  to  trees  in 
autumn,  the  penetrating  and  spicy  odor  of  the  dying 
leaves,  had  a  delicate  and  subtle  aroma  harmonizing 
with  this  quietude  of  fairyland. 

Now  and  then,  through  the  vaporous  golden  atmos- 
phere of  the  late  autumn  sunset,  through  the  pensive 
stillness  of  the  hushed  woods,  the  distant  sound  of  fem- 
inine voices,  calling  to  one  another,  echoed  from  the 
hills,  and  beyond  the  hedges  was  heard  the  crackling  of 
branches,  snapped  by  invisible  hands,  and  the  rattle  of 
nuts  dropping  on  the  earth.  It  was  the  noise  made  by 
the  gatherers  of  beechnuts,  for  in  the  years  when  the 
beech  produces  abundantly,  this  harvest,  under  the 
sanction  of  the  guardians  of  the  forest,  draws  together 
the  whole  population  of  women  and  children,  who 
collect  these  triangular  nuts,  from  which  an  excellent 
species  of  oil  is  procured. 

Wending  his  way  along  the  copse,  Claudet  suddenly 
perceived,  through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  several  large 
white  sheets  spread  under  the  beeches,  and  covered 
with  brown  heaps  of  the  fallen  fruit.  One  or  two  famil- 
iar voices  hailed  him  as  he  passed,  but  he  was  not  dis- 
posed to  gossip,  for  the  moment,  and  turned  abruptly 
into  the  bushwood,  so  as  to  avoid  any  encounter.  The 
unexpected  event  which  had  just  taken  place,  and 
which  was  to  change  his  present  mode  of  life,  as  well  as 
his  plans  for  the  future,  was  of  too  recent  occurrence  for 
him  to  view  it  with  any  degree  of  calmness. 

He  was  like  a  man  who  has  received  a  violent  blow 

[19] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

on  the  head,  and  is  for  the  moment  stunned  by  it. 
He  suffered  vaguely,  without  seeking  to  know  from 
what  cause;  he  had  not  been  able  as  yet  to  realize 
the  extent  of  his  misfortune;  and  every  now  and  then 
a  vague  hope  came  over  him  that  all  would  come 
right. 

So  on  he  went,  straight  ahead,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  until  he  emerged  upon  one 
of  the  old  forest  roads  where  the  grass  had  begun  to 
burst  through  the  stony  interstices;  and  there,  in  the 
distance,  under  the  light  tracery  of  weaving  branches, 
a  delicate  female  silhouette  was  outlined  on  the  dark 
background.  A  young  woman,  dressed  in  a  petticoat  of 
gray  woolen  material,  and  a  jacket  of  the  same,  close- 
fitting  at  the  waist,  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbows  and  sup- 
porting on  her  head  a  bag  of  nuts  enveloped  in  a  white 
sheet,  advanced  toward  him  with  a  quick  and  rhythmical 
step.  The  manner  in  which  she  carried  her  burden 
showed  the  elegance  of  her  form,  the  perfect  grace  of 
her  chest  and  throat.  She  was  not  very  tall,  but  finely 
proportioned.  As  she  approached,  the  slanting  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  shone  on  her  heavy  brown  hair,  twisted 
into  a  thick  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  revealed 
the  amber  paleness  of  her  clear  skin,  the  long  oval  of 
her  eyes,  the  firm  outline  of  her  chin  and  somewhat  full 
lips;  and  Claudet,  roused  from  his  lethargic  reverie  by 
the  sound  of  her  rapid  footsteps,  raised  his  eyes,  and 
recognized  the  daughter  of  Pere  Vincart,  the  proprietor 
of  La  Thuiliere. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  young  girl,  doubtless 
fatigued  with  the  weight  of  her  bundle,  had  laid  it  down 

[20] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

by  the  roadside  while  she  recovered  her  breath.  In  a 
few  seconds  Claudet  was  by  her  side. 

"Good-evening,  Reine,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  singularly 
softened  in  tone,  "shall  I  give  you  a  lift  with  that?" 

"Good-evening,  Claudet/'  replied  she;  "truly,  now, 
that  is  not  an  offer  to  be  refused.  The  weight  is  greater 
than  I  thought." 

"Have  you  come  far  thus  laden?" 

"No;  our  people  are  nutting  in  the  Bois  des  Ronces; 
I  came  on  before,  because  I  don't  like  to  leave  father 
alone  for  long  at  a  time  and,  as  I  was  coming,  I  wished 
to  bring  my  share  with  me." 

"No  one  can  reproach  you  with  shirking  work,  Reine, 
nor  of  being  afraid  to  take  hold  of  things.  To  see  you 
all  day  trotting  about  the  farm,  no  one  would  think  you 
had  been  to  school  in  the  city,  like  a  young  lady." 

And  Claudet's  countenance  became  irradiated  with 
a  glow  of  innocent  and  tender  admiration.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  his  eyes  looked  with  delight  into  the  dark  lim- 
pid orbs  of  Reine,  on  her  pure  and  rosy  lips,  and  on  her 
partly  uncovered  neck,  the  whiteness  of  which  two  little 
brown  moles  only  served  to  enhance. 

"How  can  it  be  helped?"  replied  she,  smiling,  "it 
must  be  done;  when  there  is  no  man  in  the  house  to 
give  orders,  the  women  must  take  a  hand  themselves. 
My  father  was  not  very  strong  when  my  mother  died, 
and  since  he  had  that  attack  he  has  become  quite  help- 
less, and  I  have  had  to  take  his  place." 

While  she  spoke,  Claudet  took  hold  of  the  bundle, 
and,  lifting  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather,  threw  it  over  his 
shoulder.  They  walked  on,  side  by  side,  in  the  direction 

[21] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

of  La  Thuiliere;  the  sun  had  set,  and  a  penetrating 
moisture,  arising  from  the  damp  soil  of  the  adjacent 
pasture  lands,  encircled  them  in  a  bluish  fog. 

"So  he  is  worse,  your  father,  is  he?"  said  Claudet, 
after  a  moment's  silence. 

"He  can  not  move  from  his  armchair,  his  mental  fac- 
ulties are  weakening,  and  I  am  obliged  to  amuse  him 
like  a  child.  But  how  is  it  with  yourself,  Claudet?" 
she  asked,  turning  her  frank,  cordial  gaze  upon  him. 
"You  have  had  your  share  of  trouble  since  we  last  met, 
and  great  events  have  happened.  Poor  Monsieur  de 
Buxieres  was  taken  away  very  suddenly!" 

The  close  relationship  that  united  Claudet  with  the 
deceased  was  a  secret  to  no  one;  Reine,  as  well  as  all 
the  country  people,  knew  and  admitted  the  fact,  how- 
ever irregular,  as  one  sanctioned  by  time  and  continuity. 
Therefore,  in  speaking  to  the  young  man,  her  voice  had 
that  tone  of  affectionate  interest  usual  in  conversing 
with  a  bereaved  friend  on  a  death  that  concerns  him. 

The  countenance  of  the  grand  chasserot,  which  had 
cleared  for  a  time  under  her  influence,  became  again 
clouded. 

"Yes;"  sighed  he,  "he  was  taken  too  soon!" 

"And  now,  Claudet,  you  are  sole  master  at  the 
chateau?" 

"Neither — master — nor  even  valet!"  he  returned, 
with  such  bitterness  that  the  young  girl  stood  still  with 
surprise. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  exclaimed,  "was  it  not 
agreed  with  Monsieur  de  Buxieres  that  you  should  in- 
herit all  his  property?" 

[22] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"Such  was  his  intention,  but  he  did  not  have  time  to 
put  it  in  execution;  he  died  without  leaving  any  will, 
and,  as  I  am  nothing  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  the  patri- 
mony will  go  to  a  distant  relative,  a  de  Buxieres  whom 
Monsieur  Odouart  did  not  even  know." 

Reine's  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"What  a  misfortune!"  she  exclaimed,  "and  who 
could  have  expected  such  a  thing?  Oh!  my  poor 
Claudet!" 

She  was  so  moved,  and  spoke  with  such  sincere 
compassion,  that  Claudet  was  perhaps  misled,  and 
thought  he  read  in  her  glistening  eyes  a  tenderer  senti- 
ment than  pity;  he  trembled,  took  her  hand,  and  held 
it  long  in  his. 

"Thank  you,  Reine!  Yes,"  he  added,  after  a  pause, 
"it  is  a  rude  shock  to  wake  up  one  morning  without 
hearth  or  home,  when  one  has  been  in  the  habit  of  liv- 
ing on  one's  income." 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  inquired  Reine, 
gravely. 

Claudet  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"To  work  for  my  bread — or,  if  I  can  find  no  suitable 
trade,  enlist  in  a  regiment.  I  think  I  should  not  make 
a  bad  soldier.  Everything  is  going  round  and  round  in 
my  head  like  a  mill-wheel.  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  see 
about  my  mother,  who  is  lamenting  down  there  at  the 
house — I  must  find  her  a  comfortable  place  to  live." 

The  young  girl  had  become  very  thoughtful. 

"Claudet,"  replied  she,  "I  know  you  are  very  proud, 
very  sensitive,  and  could  not  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings. 
Therefore,  I  pray  you  not  to  take  in  ill  part  that  which 

[33] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

I  am  going  to  say — in  short,  if  you  should  get  into  any 
trouble,  you  will,  I  hope,  remember  that  you  have 
friends  at  La  Thuiliere,  and  that  you  will  come  to  seek 


us." 


The  grand  chasserot  reddened. 

"I  shall  never  take  amiss  what  you  may  say  to  me, 
Reine!"  faltered  he;  "for  I  can  not  doubt  your  good 
heart — I  have  known  it  since  the  time  when  we  played 
together  in  the  cure's  garden,  while  waiting  for  the  time 
to  repeat  the  catechism.  But  there  is  no  hurry  as  yet; 
the  heir  will  not  arrive  for  several  weeks,  and  by  that 
time,  I  trust,  we  shall  have  had  a  chance  to  turn  round." 

They  had  reached  the  boundary  of  the  forest  where 
the  fields  of  La  Thuiliere  begin. 

By  the  last  fading  light  of  day  they  could  distinguish 
the  black  outline  of  the  ancient  forge,  now  become  a 
grange,  and  a  light  was  twinkling  in  one  of  the  low 
windows  of  the  farm. 

"Here  you  are  at  home,"  continued  Claudet,  laying 
the  bundle  of  nuts  on  the  flat  stone  wall  which  sur- 
rounded the  farm  buildings;  "I  wish  you  good-night." 

"Will  you  not  come  in  and  get  warm?" 

"No;  I  must  go  back,"  replied  he. 

"Good-night,  then,  Claudet;  au  revoir  and  good 
courage!" 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  in  the  deepening  twi- 
light, then,  abruptly  pressing  her  hands: 

"Thank  you,  Reine,"  murmured  he  in  a  choking 
voice,  "you  are  a  good  girl,  and  I  love  you  very  much!" 

He  left  the  young  mistress  of  the  farm  precipitately, 
and  plunged  again  into  the  woods. 

[24] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  HEIR  TO  VTVEY 

;HILE  these  events  were  happening  at 
Vivey,  the  person  whose  name  excited 
the  curiosity  and  the  conversational 
powers  of  the  villagers — Marie- Julien 
de  Buxieres — ensconced  in  his  unpre- 
tentious apartment  in  the  Rue  Stanis- 
laus, Nancy,  still  pondered  over  the 
astonishing  news  contained  in  the  Aube- 
rive  notary's  first  letter.  The  announcement  of  his  in- 
heritance, dropping  from  the  skies,  as  it  were,  had  found 
him  quite  unprepared,  and,  at  first,  somewhat  sceptical. 
He  remembered,  it  is  true,  hearing  his  father  once  speak 
of  a  cousin  who  had  remained  a  bachelor  and  who 
owned  a  fine  piece  of  property  in  some  corner  of  the 
Haute  Marne;  but,  as  all  intercourse  had  long  been 
broken  off  between  the  two  families,  M.  de  Buxieres  the 
elder  had  mentioned  the  subject  only  in  relation  to 
barely  possible  hopes  which  had  very  little  chance  of 
being  realized.  Julien  had  never  placed  any  reliance 
on  this  chimerical  inheritance,  and  he  received  almost 
with  indifference  the  official  announcement  of  the  death 
of  Claude  Odouart  de  Buxieres. 

By  direct  line  from  his  late  father,  he  became  in  fact 
the  only  legitimate  heir  of  the  chateau  and  lands  of 

[25] 


ANDRti  THEURIET 

Vivey;  still,  there  was  a  strong  probability  that  Claude 
de  Buxieres  had  made  a  will  in  favor  of  some  one  more 
within  his  own  circle.  The  second  missive  from  Arbillot 
the  notary,  announcing  that  the  deceased  had  died  intes- 
tate, and  requesting  the  legal  heir  to  come  to  Vivey  as 
soon  as  possible,  put  a  sudden  end  to  the  young  man's 
doubts,  which  merged  into  a  complex  feeling,  less  of  joy 
than  of  stupefaction. 

Up  to  the  present  time,  Julien  de  Buxieres  had  not 
been  spoiled  by  Fortune's  gifts.  His  parents,  who  had 
died  prematurely,  had  left  him  nothing.  He  lived  in  a 
very  mediocre  style  on  his  slender  salary  as  comptroller 
of  direct  contributions,  and,  although  twenty-seven 
years  old,  was  housed  like  a  supernumerary  in  a  small 
furnished  room  on  the  second  floor  above  the  ground. 
At  this  time  his  physique  was  that  of  a  young  man  of 
medium  height,  slight,  pale,  and  nervous,  sensitive  in 
disposition,  reserved  and  introspective  in  habit.  His 
delicate  features,  his  intelligent  forehead  surmounted 
by  soft  chestnut  hair,  his  pathetic  blue  eyes,  his  curved, 
dissatisfied  mouth,  shaded  by  a  slight,  dark  moustache, 
indicated  a  melancholy,  unquiet  temperament  and  pre- 
cocious moral  fatigue. 

There  are  some  men  who  never  have  had  any  child- 
hood, or  rather,  whose  childhood  never  has  had  its 
happy  time  of  laughter.  Julien  was  one  of  these. 
That  which  imparts  to  childhood  its  charm  and  enjoy- 
ment is  the  warm  and  tender  atmosphere  of  the  home; 
the  constant  and  continued  caressing  of  a  mother;  the 
gentle  and  intimate  creations  of  one's  native  country 
where,  by  degrees,  the  senses  awaken  to  the  marvellous 

[26] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

sights  of  the  outer  world ;  where  the  alternating  seasons 
in  their  course  first  arouse  the  student's  ambition  and 
cause  the  heart  of  the  adolescent  youth  to  thrill  with 
emotion;  where  every  street  corner,  every  tree,  every 
turn  of  the  soil,  has  some  history  to  relate.  Julien  had 
had  no  experiences  of  this  peaceful  family  life,  during 
which  are  stored  up  such  treasures  of  childhood's  recol- 
lections. He  was  the  son  of  a  government  official,  who 
had  been  trotted  over  all  France  at  the  caprice  of  the 
administration,  and  he  had  never  known,  so  to  speak, 
any  associations  of  the  land  in  which  he  was  born,  or 
the  hearth  on  which  he  was  raised.  Chance  had  located 
his  birth  in  a  small  town  among  the  Pyrenees,  and  when 
he  was  two  years  old  he  had  been  transplanted  to  one 
of  the  industrial  cities  of  Artois.  At  the  end  of  two 
years  more  came  another  removal  to  one  of  the  midland 
towns,  and  thus  his  tender  childhood  had  been  buffeted 
about,  from  east  to  west,  from  north  to  south,  taking 
root  nowhere.  All  he  could  remember  of  these  early 
years  was  an  unpleasant  impression  of  hasty  packing 
and  removal,  of  long  journeys  by  diligence,  and  of  un- 
comfortable resettling.  His  mother  had  died  just  as 
he  was  entering  upon  his  eighth  year;  his  father,  ab- 
sorbed in  official  work,  and  not  caring  to  leave  the  child 
to  the  management  of  servants,  had  placed  him  at  that 
early  age  in  a  college  directed  by  priests.  Julien  thus 
passed  his  second  term  of  childhood,  and  his  boyhood 
was  spent  behind  these  stern,  gloomy  walls,  bending 
resignedly  under  a  discipline  which,  though  gentle,  was 
narrow  and  suspicious,  and  allowed  little  scope  for 
personal  development.  He  obtained  only  occasional 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

glimpses  of  nature  during  the  monotonous  daily  walks 
across  a  flat,  meaningless  country.  At  very  rare  inter- 
vals, one  of  his  father's  colleagues  would  take  him  visit- 
ing; but  these  stiff  and  ceremonious  calls  only  left  a 
wearisome  sensation  of  restraint  and  dull  fatigue.  Dur- 
ing the  long  vacation  he  used  to  rejoin  his  father,  whom 
he  almost  always  found  in  a  new  residence.  The  poor 
man  had  alighted  there  for  a  time,  like  a  bird  on  a  tree ; 
and  among  these  continually  shifting  scenes,  the  lad  had 
felt  himself  more  than  ever  a  stranger  among  strangers; 
so  that  he  experienced  always  a  secret  though  joyless 
satisfaction  in  returning  to  the  cloisters  of  the  St. 
Hilaire  college  and  submitting  himself  to  the  yoke  of 
the  paternal  but  inflexible  discipline  of  the  Church, 

He  was  naturally  inclined,  by  the  tenderness  of  his 
nature,  toward  a  devotional  life,  and  accepted  with  blind 
confidence  the  religious  and  moral  teaching  of  the 
reverend  fathers.  A  doctrine  which  preached  separa- 
tion from  profane  things;  the  attractions  of  a  meditative 
and  pious  life,  and  mistrust  of  the  world  and  its  perilous 
pleasures,  harmonized  with  the  shy  and  melancholy  tim- 
idity of  his  nature.  Human  beings,  especially  women, 
inspired  him  with  secret  aversion,  which  was  increased 
by  consciousness  of  his  awkwardness  and  remissness 
whenever  he  found  himself  in  the  society  of  women  or 
young  girls. 

The  beauties  of  nature  did  not  affect  him ;  the  flowers 
in  the  springtime,  the  glories  of  the  summer  sun,  the  rich 
coloring  of  autumn  skies,  having  no  connection  in  his 
mind  with  any  joyous  recollection,  left  him  cold  and  un- 
moved ;  he  even  professed  an  almost  hostile  indifference 

[28] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

to  such  purely  material  sights  as  disturbing  and  danger- 
ous to  the  inner  life.  He  lived  within  himself  and  could 
not  see  beyond. 

His  mind,  imbued  with  a  mystic  idealism,  delighted 
itself  in  solitary  reading  or  in  meditations  in  the  house 
of  prayer.  The  only  emotion  he  ever  betrayed  was 
caused  by  the  organ  music  accompanying  the  hymnal 
plain-song,  and  by  the  pomp  of  religious  ceremony. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  left  the  St.  Hilaire  col- 
lege in  order  to  prepare  his  baccalaureate,  and  his 
father,  becoming  alarmed  at  his  increasing  moodiness 
and  mysticism,  endeavored  to  infuse  into  him  the  tastes 
and  habits  of  a  man  of  the  world  by  introducing  him 
into  the  society  of  his  equals  in  the  town  where  he  lived; 
but  the  twig  was  already  bent,  and  the  young  man 
yielded  with  bad  grace  to  the  change  of  regime;  the 
amusements  they  offered  were  either  wearisome  or  re- 
pugnant to  him.  He  would  wander  aimlessly  through 
the  salons  where  they  were  playing  whist,  where  the 
ladies  played  show  pieces  at  the  piano,  and  where  they 
spoke  a  language  he  did  not  understand.  He  was  quite 
aware  of  his  worldly  inaptitude,  and  that  he  was  con- 
sidered awkward,  dull,  and  ill-tempered,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  this  fact  paralyzed  and  frightened  him  still 
more.  He  could  not  disguise  his  feeling  of  ennui  suf- 
ciently  to  prevent  the  provincial  circles  from  being 
greatly  offended;  they  declared  unanimously  that  young 
de  Buxieres  was  a  bear,  and  decided  to  leave  him  alone. 
The  death  of  his  father,  which  happened  just  as  the 
youth  was  beginning  his  official  cares,  put  a  sudden  end 
to  all  this  constraint.  He  took  advantage  of  his  season 

[29] 


ANDR^  THEURIET 

of  mourning  to  resume  his  old  ways;  and  returned  with 
a  sigh  of  relief  to  his  solitude,  his  books,  and  his  medi- 
tations. According  to  the  promise  of  the  Imitation,  he 
found  unspeakable  joys  in  his  retirement;  he  rose  at 
break  of  day,  assisted  at  early  mass,  fulfilled,  conscien- 
tiously, his  administrative  duties,  took  his  hurried  meals 
in  a  boarding-house,  where  he  exchanged  a  few  polite 
remarks  with  his  fellow  inmates,  then  shut  himself  up 
in  his  room  to  read  Pascal  or  Bossuet  until  eleven 
o'clock. 

He  thus  attained  his  twenty-seventh  year,  and  it  was 
into  the  calm  of  this  serious,  cloister-like  life,  that  the 
news  fell  of  the  death  of  Claude  de  Buxieres  and  of  the 
unexpected  inheritance  that  had  accrued  to  him. 

After  entering  into  correspondence  with  the  notary, 
M.  Arbillot,  and  becoming  assured  of  the  reality  of 
his  rights  and  of  the  neccessity  of  his  presence  at  Vivey, 
he  had  obtained  leave  of  absence  from  his  official  duties, 
and  set  out  for  Haute  Marne.  On  the  way,  he  could  not 
help  marvelling  at  the  providential  interposition  which 
would  enable  him  to  leave  a  career  for  which  he  felt  he 
had  no  vocation,  and  to  pursue  his  independent  life, 
according  to  his  own  tastes,  and  secured  from  any  fear 
of  outside  cares.  According  to  the  account  given  by  the 
notary,  Claude  de  Buxieres's  fortune  might  be  valued  at 
two  hundred  thousand  francs,  in  furniture  and  other 
movables,  without  reckoning  the  chateau  and  the  adja- 
cent woods.  This  was  a  much  larger  sum  than  had  ever 
been  dreamed  of  by  Julien  de  Buxieres,  whose  belong- 
ings did  not  amount  in  all  to  three  thousand  francs.  He 
made  up  his  mind,  therefore,  that,  as  soon  as  he  was 

[30] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

installed  at  Vivey,  he  would  change  his  leave  of  absence 
to  an  unlimited  furlough  of  freedom.  He  contemplated 
with  serene  satisfaction  this  perspective  view  of  calm 
and  solitary  retirement  in  a  chateau  lost  to  view  in  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  where  he  could  in  perfect  security 
give  himself  up  to  the  studious  contemplative  life  which 
he  loved  so  much,  far  from  all  worldly  frivolities  and 
restraint.  He  already  imagined  himself  at  Vivey,  shut 
up  in  his  carefully  selected  library;  he  delighted  in  the 
thought  of  having  in  future  to  deal  only  with  the  country 
people,  whose  uncivilized  ways  would  be  like  his  own, 
and  among  whom  his  timidity  would  not  be  remarked. 

He  arrived  at  Langres  in  the  afternoon  of  a  foggy 
October  day,  and  inquired  immediately  at  the  hotel  how 
he  could  procure  a  carriage  to  take  him  that  evening  to 
Vivey.  They  found  him  a  driver,  but,  to  his  surprise, 
the  man  refused  to  take  the  journey  until  the  following 
morning,  on  account  of  the  dangerous  state  of  the  cross- 
roads, where  vehicles  might  stick  fast  in  the  mire  if  they 
ventured  there  after  nightfall.  Julien  vainly  endeavored 
to  effect  an  arrangement  with  him,  and  the  discussion 
was  prolonged  in  the  courtyard  of  the  hotel.  Just  as  the 
man  was  turning  away,  another,  who  had  overheard  the 
end  of  the  colloquy,  came  up  to  young  de  Buxieres,  and 
offered  to  undertake  the  journey  for  twenty  francs. 

"I  have  a  good  horse^"  said  he  to  Julien;  "I  know 
the  roads,  and  will  guarantee  that  we  reach  Vivey  be- 
fore nightfall." 

The  bargain  was  quickly  made;  and  in  half  an  hour, 
Julien  de  Buxieres  was  rolling  over  the  plain  above 
Langres,  in  a  shaky  old  cabriolet,  the  muddy  hood  of 

[3*] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

which  bobbed  over  at  every  turn  of  the  wheel,  while  the 
horse  kept  up  a  lively  trot  over  the  stones. 

The  clouds  were  low,  and  the  road  lay  across  bare 
and  stony  prairies,  the  gray  expanse  of  which  became 
lost  in  the  distant  mist.  This  depressing  landscape 
would  have  made  a  disagreeable  impression  on  a  less 
unobserving  traveller,  but,  as  we  have  said,  Julien 
looked  only  inward,  and  the  phenomena  of  the  exterior 
world  influenced  him  only  unconsciously.  Half  closing 
his  eyes,  and  mechanically  affected  by  the  rhythmical 
tintinnabulation  of  the  little  bells,  hanging  around  the 
horse's  neck,  he  had  resumed  his  meditations,  and  con- 
sidered how  he  should  arrange  his  life  in  this,  to  him, 
unknown  country,  which  would  probably  be  his  own  for 
some  time  to  come.  Nevertheless,  when,  at  the  end  of 
the  level  plain,  the  road  turned  off  into  the  wooded 
region,  the  unusual  aspect  of  the  forest  aroused  his  curi- 
osity. The  tufted  woods  and  lofty  trees,  in  endless  suc- 
cession under  the  fading  light,  impressed  him  by  their 
profound  solitude  and  their  religious  silence.  His  lone- 
liness was  in  sympathy  with  the  forest,  which  seemed 
contemporary  with  the  Sleeping  Beauty  of  the  wood,  the 
verdant  walls  of  which  were  to  separate  him  forever 
from  the  world  of  cities.  Henceforth,  he  could  be  him- 
self, could  move  freely,  dress  as  he  wished,  or  give  way 
to  his  dreaming,  without  fearing  to  encounter  the  ironi- 
cal looks  of  idle  and  wondering  neighbors.  For  the  first 
time  since  his  departure  from  his  former  home,  he  ex- 
perienced a  feeling  of  joy  and  serenity;  the  influence  of 
the  surroundings,  so  much  in  harmony  with  his  wishes, 
unlocked  his  tongue,  and  made  him  communicative. 

[3*1 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to  the  guide,  who  was 
smoking  at  his  side  and  whipping  his  horse. 

"Are  we  far  from  Vivey  now?" 

"That  depends,  Monsieur — as  the  crow  flies,  the  dis- 
tance is  not  very  great,  and  if  we  could  go  by  the  roads, 
we  should  be  there  in  one  short  hour.  Unfortunately, 
on  turning  by  the  Allofroy  farm,  we  shall  have  to  leave 
the  highroad  and  take  the  cross  path;  and  then — my 
gracious !  we  shall  plunge  into  the  ditch  down  there,  and 
into  perdition." 

"You  told  me  that  you  were  well  acquainted  with  the 
roads!" 

"I  know  them,  and  I  do  not  know  them.  When  it 
comes  to  these  crossroads,  one  is  sure  of  nothing.  They 
change  every  year,  and  each  new  superintendent  cuts  a 
way  out  through  the  woods  according  to  his  fancy. 
The  devil  himself  could  not  find  his  way." 

"Yet  you  have  been  to  Vivey  before?" 

"Oh,  yes;  five  or  six  years  ago;  I  used  often  to  take 
parties  of  hunters  to  the  chateau.  Ah!  Monsieur,  what 
a  beautiful  country  it  is  for  hunting;  you  can  not  take 
twenty  steps  along  a  trench  without  seeing  a  stag  or  a 
deer." 

"You  have  doubtless  had  the  opportunity  of  meeting 
Monsieur  Odouart  de  Buxieres?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  Monsieur,  more  than  once — ah!  he  is 
a  jolly  fellow  and  a  fine  man " 

"He  was,"  interrupted  Julien,  gravely,  "for  he  is 
dead." 

"Ah!  excuse  me — I  did  not  know  it.  What!  is  he 
really  dead ?  So  fine  a  man!  What  we  must  all  come 
3  [33] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

to.  Careful,  now!"  added  he,  pulling  in  the  reins,  "we 
are  leaving  the  highroad,  and  must  keep  our  eyes  open." 

The  twilight  was  already  deepening,  the  driver  light- 
ed his  lantern,  and  the  vehicle  turned  into  a  narrow 
lane,  half  mud,  half  stone,  and  hedged  in  on  both  sides 
with  wet  brushwood,  which  flapped  noisily  against  the 
leathern  hood.  After  fifteen  minutes'  riding,  the  paths 
opened  upon  a  pasture,  dotted  here  and  there  with  juni- 
per bushes,  and  thence  divided  into  three  lines,  along 
which  ran  the  deep  track  of  wagons,  cutting  the  pastur- 
age into  small  hillocks.  After  long  hesitation,  the  man 
cracked  his  whip  and  took  the  right-hand  path. 

Julien  began  to  fear  that  the  fellow  had  boasted  too 
much  when  he  declared  that  he  knew  the  best  way. 
The  ruts  became  deeper  and  deeper;  the  road  was 
descending  into  a  hole;  suddenly,  the  wheels  became 
embedded  up  to  the  hub  in  thick,  sticky  mire,  and  the 
horse  refused  to  move.  The  driver  jumped  to  the 
ground,  swearing  furiously;  then  he  called  Julien  to 
help  him  to  lift  out  the  wheel.  But  the  young  man, 
slender  and  frail  as  he  was,  and  not  accustomed  to  using 
his  muscles,  was  not  able  to  render  much  assistance. 

"Thunder  and  lightning!"  cried  the  driver,  "it  is  im- 
possible to  get  out  of  this — let  go  the  wheel,  Monsieur, 
you  have  no  more  strength  than  a  chicken,  and,  besides, 
you  don't  know  how  to  go  about  it.  What  a  devil  of  a 
road!  But  we  can't  spend  the  night  here!" 

"If  we  were  to  call  out,"  suggested  Julien,  somewhat 
mortified  at  the  inefficiency  of  his  assistance,  "some  one 
would  perhaps  come  to  our  aid." 

They  accordingly  shouted  with  desperation;  and  after 

[34] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

five  or  six  minutes,  a  voice  hailed  back.  A  woodcutter, 
from  one  of  the  neighboring  clearings,  had  heard  the 
call,  and  was  running  toward  them. 

"This  way!"  cried  the  guide,  "we  are  stuck  fast  in 
the  mud.  Give  us  a  lift." 

The  man  came  up  and  walked  round  the  vehicle, 
shaking  his  head. 

"You've  got  on  to  a  blind  road,"  said  he,  "and  you'll 
have  trouble  in  getting  out  of  it,  seeing  as  how  there's  not 
light  to  go  by.  You  had  better  unharness  the  horse, 
and  wait  for  daylight,  if  you  want  to  get  your  carriage 
out." 

"And  where  shall  we  go  for  a  bed?"  growled  the 
driver;  "there  isn't  even  a  house  near  in  this  accursed 
wild  country  of  yours!" 

"  Excuse  me — you  are  not  far  from  La  Thuiliere ;  the 
farm  people  will  not  refuse  you  a  bed,  and  to-morrow 
morning  they  will  help  you  to  get  your  carriage  out  of 
the  mud.  Unharness,  comrade;  I  will  lead  you  as  far 
as  the  Planche-au-Vacher;  and  from  there  you  will  see 
the  windows  of  the  farmhouse." 

The  driver,  still  grumbling,  decided  to  take  his  advice. 
They  unharnessed  the  horse;  took  one  of  the  lanterns 
of  the  carriage  as  a  beacon,  and  followed  slowly  the  line 
of  pasture-land,  under  the  woodchopper's  guidance. 
At  the  end  of  about  ten  minutes,  the  forester  pointed 
out  a  light,  twinkling  at  the  extremity  of  a  rustic  path, 
bordered  with  moss. 

"You  have  only  to  go  straight  ahead,"  said  he,  "be- 
sides, the  barking  of  the  dogs  will  guide  you.  Ask  for 
Mamselle  Vincart.  Good-night,  gentlemen." 

[35] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  while  Julien,  bewildered,  began 
to  reproach  himself  for  not  having  thanked  him  enough. 
The  conductor  went  along  with  his  lantern;  young  de 
Buxieres  followed  him  with  eyes  downcast.  Thus  they 
continued  silently  until  they  reached  the  termination 
of  the  mossy  path,  where  a  furious  barking  saluted  their 


"Here  we  are,"  growled  the  driver,  "fortunately  the 
dogs  are  not  yet  let  loose,  or  we  should  pass  a  bad  quar- 
ter of  an  hour!" 

They  pushed  open  a  side-  wicket  and,  standing  in  the 
courtyard,  could  see  the  house.  With  the  exception  of 
the  luminous  spot  that  reddened  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  ground  floor,  the  long,  low  facade  was  dark,  and,  as 
it  were,  asleep.  On  the  right,  standing  alone,  outlined 
against  the  sky,  was  the  main  building  of  the  ancient 
forge,  now  used  for  granaries  and  stables;  inside,  the 
frantic  barking  of  the  watch-dogs  mingled  with  the 
bleating  of  the  frightened  sheep,  the  neighing  of  horses, 
and  the  clanking  of  wooden  shoes  worn  by  the  farm 
hands.  At  the  same  moment,  the  door  of  the  house 
opened,  and  a  servant,  attracted  by  the  uproar,  appeared 
on  the  threshold,  a  lantern  in  her  hand. 

"Hallo!  you  people,"  she  exclaimed  sharply  to  the 
newcomers,  who  were  advancing  toward  her,  "what  do 
you  want?" 

The  driver  related,  in  a  few  words,  the  affair  of  the 
cabriolet,  and  asked  whether  they  would  house  him  at 
the  farm  until  the  next  day—  himself  and  the  gentleman 
he  was  conducting  to  Vivey. 

The  girl  raised  the  lantern  above  her  head  in  order  to 

[36] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

scrutinize  the  two  strangers;  doubtless  their  appearance 
and  air  of  respectability  reassured  her,  for  she  replied, 
in  a  milder  voice: 

"Well,  that  does  not  depend  on  me — I  am  not  the 
mistress  here,  but  come  in,  all  the  same — Mamselle 
Reine  can  not  be  long  now,  and  she  will  answer  for 
herself." 

As  soon  as  the  driver  had  fastened  his  horse  to  one  of 
the  outside  posts  of  the  wicket-gate,  the  servant  brought 
them  into  a  large,  square  hall,  in  which  a  lamp,  covered 
with  a  shade,  gave  a  moderate  light.  She  placed  two 
chairs  before  the  fire,  which  she  drew  together  with  the 
poker. 

"Warm  yourselves  while  you  are  waiting,"  continued 
she,  "it  will  not  be  long,  and  you  must  excuse  me — I 
must  go  and  milk  the  cows — that  is  work  which  will  not 
wait." 

She  reached  the  courtyard,  and  shut  the  gate  after 
her,  while  Julien  turned  to  examine  the  room  into  which 
they  had  been  shown,  and  felt  a  certain  serenity  creep 
over  him  at  the  clean  and  cheerful  aspect  of  this  homely 
but  comfortable  interior.  The  room  served  as  both 
kitchen  and  dining-room.  On  the  right  of  the  flaring 
chimney,  one  of  the  cast-iron  arrangements  called  a 
cooking-stove  was  gently  humming;  the  saucepans, 
resting  on  the  bars,  exhaled  various  appetizing  odors. 
In  the  centre,  the  long,  massive  table  of  solid  beech  was 
already  spread  with  its  coarse  linen  cloth,  and  the  service 
was  laid.  White  muslin  curtains  fell  in  front  of  the 
large  windows,  on  the  sills  of  which  potted  chrysanthe- 
mums spread  their  white,  brown,  and  red  blossoms. 

[37] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

Round  the  walls  a  shining  battery  of  boilers,  kettles, 
basins,  and  copper  plates  were  hung  in  symmetrical 
order.  On  the  dresser,  near  the  clock,  was  a  complete 
service  of  old  Aprey  china,  in  bright  and  varied  colors, 
and  not  far  from  the  chimney,  which  was  ornamented 
with  a  crucifix  of  yellow  copper,  was  a  set  of  shelves, 
attached  to  the  wall,  containing  three  rows  of  books,  in 
gray  linen  binding.  Julien,  approaching,  read,  not 
without  surprise,  some  of  the  titles :  Paul  and  Virginia, 
La  Fontaine's  Fables,  Gessner's  Idylls,  Don  Quixote, 
and  noticed  several  odd  volumes  of  the  Picturesque 
Magazine. 

Hanging  from  the  whitened  ceiling  were  clusters  of 
nuts,  twisted  hemp,  strings  of  yellow  maize,  and  chap- 
lets  of  golden  pippins  tied  with  straw,  all  harmonizing 
in  the  dim  light,  and  adding  increased  fulness  to  the 
picture  of  thrift  and  abundance. 

"It's  jolly  here!"  said  the  driver,  smacking  his  lips, 
"  and  the  smell  which  comes  from  that  oven  makes  one 
hungry.  I  wish  Mamselle  Reine  would  arrive!" 

Just  as  he  said  this,  a  mysterious  falsetto  voice,  which 
seemed  to  come  from  behind  the  copper  basins,  re- 
peated, in  an  acrid  voice:  "Reine!  Reine!" 

"What  in  the  world  is  that?"  exclaimed  the  driver, 
puzzled. 

Both  looked  toward  the  beams;  at  the  same  moment 
there  was  a  rustling  of  wings,  a  light  hop,  and  a  black- 
and  white-object  flitted  by,  resting,  finally,  on  one  of  the 
shelves  hanging  from  the  joists. 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  the  driver,  laughing,  "it  is  only  a 
magpie!" 

[38] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

He  had  hardly  said  it,  when,  like  a  plaintive  echo, 
another  voice,  a  human  voice  this  time,  childish  and 
wavering,  proceeding  from  a  dark  corner,  faltered: 
"  Rei — eine — Rei — eine ! " 

"Hark!"   murmured  Julien,  "some  one  answered." 

His  companion  seized  the  lamp,  and  advanced  to- 
ward the  portion  of  the  room  left  in  shadow.  Suddenly 
he  stopped  short,  and  stammered  some  vague  excuse. 

Julien,  who  followed  him,  then  perceived,  with  alarm, 
in  a  sort  of  niche  formed  by  two  screens,  entirely  covered 
with  illustrations  from  Epinal,  a  strange-looking  being 
stretched  in  an  easy-chair,  which  was  covered  with  pil- 
lows and  almost  hidden  under  various  woolen  draperies. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  long  coat  of  coarse,  pale-blue  cloth. 
He  was  bareheaded,  and  his  long,  white  hair  formed  a 
weird  frame  for  a  face  of  bloodless  hue  and  meagre  pro- 
portions, from  which  two  vacant  eyes  stared  fixedly. 
He  sat  immovable  and  his  arms  hung  limply  over  his 
knees. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Julien,  bowing  ceremoniously,  "we 
are  quite  ashamed  at  having  disturbed  you.  Your  ser- 
vant forgot  to  inform  us  of  your  presence,  and  we  were 
waiting  for  Mademoiselle  Reine,  without  thinking 
that 

The  old  man  continued  immovable,  not  seeming  to 
understand;  he  kept  repeating,  in  the  same  voice,  like 
a  frightened  child: 

"  Rei— eine !    Rei— eine ! " 

The  two  bewildered  travellers  gazed  at  this  sepul- 
chral-looking personage,  then  at  each  other  interroga- 
tively, and  began  to  feel  very  uncomfortable.  The 

[39] ' 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

magpie,  perched  upon  the  hanging  shelf,  suddenly 
flapped  his  wings,  and  repeated,  in  his  turn,  in  falsetto: 

"Reine,  queen  of  the  woods! " 

"Here  I  am,  papa,  don't  get  uneasy!"  said  a  clear, 
musical  voice  behind  them. 

The  door  had  been  suddenly  opened,  and  Reine 
Vincart  had  entered.  She  wore  on  her  head  a  white 
cape  or  hood,  and  held  in  front  of  her  an  enormous 
bouquet  of  glistening  leaves,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
gathered  as  specimens  of  all  the  wild  fruit-trees  of  the 
forest:  the  brown  beam-berries,  the  laburnums,  and 
wild  cherry,  with  their  red,  transparent  fruit,  the  bluish 
mulberry,  the  orange-clustered  mountain-ash.  All  this 
forest  vegetation,  mingling  its  black  or  purple  tints  with 
the  dark,  moist  leaves,  brought  out  the  whiteness  of 
the  young  girl's  complexion,  her  limpid  eyes,  and  her 
brown  curls  escaping  from  her  hood. 

Julien  de  Buxieres  and  his  companion  had  turned  at 
the  sound  of  Reine's  voice.  As  soon  as  she  perceived 
them,  she  went  briskly  toward  them,  exclaiming: 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  Don't  you  see  that  you 
are  frightening  him?" 

Julien,  humbled  and  mortified,  murmured  an  excuse, 
and  got  confused  in  trying  to  relate  the  incident  of  the 
carriage.  She  interrupted  him  hurriedly: 

"The  carriage,  oh,  yes — La  Guitiote  spoke  to  me 
about  it.  Well,  your  carriage  will  be  attended  to !  Go 
and  sit  down  by  the  fire,  gentlemen;  we  will  talk  about 
it  presently." 

She  had  taken  the  light  from  the  driver,  and  placed 
it  on  an  adjacent  table  with  her  plants.  In  the  twin- 

[40] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

klfng  of  an  eye,  she  removed  her  hood,  unfastened  her 
shawl,  and  then  knelt  down  in  front  of  the  sick  man, 
after  kissing  him  tenderly  on  the  forehead.  From  the 
corner  where  Julien  had  seated  himself,  he  could  hear  her 
soothing  voice.  Its  caressing  tones  contrasted  pleas- 
antly with  the  harsh  accent  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

"You  were  longing  for  me,  papa,"  said  she,  "but 
you  see,  I  could  not  leave  before  all  the  sacks  of  potatoes 
had  been  laid  in  the  wagon.  Now  everything  has  been 
brought  in,  and  we  can  sleep  in  peace.  I  thought  of  you 
on  the  way,  and  I  have  brought  you  a  fine  bouquet  of 
wild  fruits.  We  shall  enjoy  looking  them  over  to-mor- 
row, by  daylight.  Now,  this  is  the  time  that  you  are  to 
drink  your  bouillon  like  a  good  papa,  and  then  as  soon 
as  we  have  had  our  supper  Guite  and  I  will  put  you  to 
bed  nice  and  warm,  and  I  will  sing  you  a  song  to  send 
you  to  sleep." 

She  rose,  took  from  the  sideboard  a  bowl  which  she 
filled  from  a  saucepan  simmering  on  the  stove,  and  then, 
without  taking  any  notice  of  her  visitors,  she  returned  to 
the  invalid.  Slowly  and  with  delicate  care  she  made 
him  swallow  the  soup  by  spoonfuls.  Julien,  notwith- 
standing the  feeling  of  ill-humor  caused  by  the  untoward 
happenings  of  the  evening,  could  not  help  admiring  the 
almost  maternal  tenderness  with  which  the  young  girl 
proceeded  in  this  slow  and  difficult  operation.  When 
the  bowl  was  empty  she  returned  to  the  stove,  and  at 
last  bethought  herself  of  her  guests. 

"Excuse  me,  Monsieur,  but  I  had  to  attend  to  my 
father  first.  If  I  understood  Guite  aright,  you  were 
going  to  Vivey." 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle,  I  had  hoped  to  sleep  there  to- 
night." 

"You  have  probably  come/'  continued  she,  "on  busi- 
ness connected  with  the  chateau.  Is  not  the  heir  of 
Monsieur  Odouart  expected  very  shortly?" 

"I  am  that  heir,"  replied  Julien,  coloring. 

"You  are  Monsieur  de  Buxieres?"  exclaimed  Reine, 
in  astonishment.  Then,  embarrassed  at  having  shown 
her  surprise  too  openly,  she  checked  herself,  colored  in 
her  turn,  and  finally  gave  a  rapid  glance  at  her  inter- 
locutor. She  never  should  have  imagined  this  slender 
young  man,  so  melancholy  in  aspect,  to  be  the  new  pro- 
prietor— he  was  so  unlike  the  late  Odouart  de  Buxieres ! 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur,"  continued  she,  "you  must 
have  thought  my  first  welcome  somewhat  unceremo- 
nious, but  my  first  thought  was  for  my  father.  He  is  a 
great  invalid,  as  you  may  have  noticed,  and  for  the 
first  moment  I  feared  that  he  had  been  startled  by 
strange  faces." 

"It  is  I,  Mademoiselle,"  replied  Julien,  with  embar- 
rassment, "it  is  I  who  ought  to  ask  pardon  for  having 
caused  all  this  disturbance.  But  I  do  not  intend  to 
trouble  you  any  longer.  If  you  will  kindly  furnish  us 
with  a  guide  who  will  direct  us  to  the  road  to  Vivey, 
we  will  depart  to-night  and  sleep  at  the  chateau." 

"No,  indeed,"  protested  Reine,  very  cordially.  "  You 
are  my  guests,  and  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  leave  us  in 
that  manner.  Besides,  you  would  probably  find  the 
gates  closed  down  there,  for  I  do  not  think  they  ex- 
pected you  so  soon." 

During  this  interview,  the  servant  who  had  received 
[42] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

the  travellers  had  returned  with  her  milk-pail ;  behind 
her,  the  other  farm-hands,  men  and  women,  arranged 
themselves  silently  round  the  table, 

"Guitiote,"  said  Reine,  "lay  two  more  places  at  the 
table.  The  horse  belonging  to  these  gentlemen  has 
been  taken  care  of,  has  he  not?" 

"Yes,  Mamselle,  he  is  in  the  stable,"  replied  one  of 
the  grooms. 

"Good!  Bernard,  to-morrow  you  will  take  Fleuriot 
with  you,  and  go  in  search  of  their  carriage  which  has 
been  swamped  in  the  Planche-au-Vacher.  That  is  set- 
tled. Now,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  will  you  proceed  to 
table — and  your  coachman  also?  Upon  my  word,  I 
do  not  know  whether  our  supper  will  be  to  your  liking. 
I  can  only  offer  you  a  plate  of  soup,  a  chine  of  pork, 
and  cheese  made  in  the  country;  but  you  must  be 
hungry,  and  when  one  has  a  good  appetite,  one  is  not 
hard  to  please." 

Every  one  had  been  seated  at  the  table;  the  servants 
at  the  lower  end,  and  Reine  Vincart,  near  the  fireplace, 
between  M.  de  Buxieres  and  the  driver.  La  Guite 
helped  the  cabbage-soup  all  around;  soon  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  clinking  of  spoons  and  smacking  of 
lips.  Julien,  scarcely  recovered  from  his  bewilderment, 
watched  furtively  the  pretty,  robust  young  girl  presiding 
at  the  supper,  and  keeping,  at  the  same  time,  a  watch- 
ful eye  over  all  the  details  of  service.  He  thought  her 
strange;  she  upset  all  his  ideas.  His  own  imagination 
and  his  theories  pictured  a  woman,  and  more  especially 
a  young  girl,  as  a  submissive,  modest,  shadowy  creature, 
with  downcast  look,  only  raising  her  eyes  to  consult  her 

[43] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

husband  or  her  mother  as  to  what  is  allowable  and  what 
is  forbidden.  Now,  Reine  did  not  fulfil  any  of  the 
requirements  of  this  ideal.  She  seemed  to  be  hardly 
twenty- two  years  old,  and  she  acted  with  the  initiative 
genius,  the  frankness  and  the  decision  of  a  man,  retain- 
ing all  the  while  the  tenderness  and  easy  grace  of  a 
woman.  Although  it  was  evident  that  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  govern  and  command,  there  was  nothing  in  her 
look,  gesture,  or  voice  which  betrayed  any  assumption 
of  masculinity.  She  remained  a  young  girl  while  in  the 
very  act  of  playing  the  virile  part  of  head  of  the  house. 
But  what  astonished  Julien  quite  as  much  was  that  she 
seemed  to  have  received  a  degree  of  education  superior 
to  that  of  people  of  her  condition,  and  he  wondered  at 
the  amount  of  will-power  by  which  a  nature  highly  culti- 
vated, relatively  speaking,  could  conform  to  the  unre- 
fined, rough  surroundings  in  which  she  was  placed. 

While  Julien  was  immersed  in  these  reflections,  and 
continued  eating  with  an  abstracted  air,  Reine  Vincart 
was  rapidly  examining  the  reserved,  almost  ungainly, 
young  man,  who  did  not  dare  address  any  conversation 
to  her,  and  who  was  equally  stiff  and  constrained  with 
those  sitting  near  him.  She  made  a  mental  comparison 
of  him  with  Claudet,  the  bold  huntsman,  alert,  resolute, 
full  of  dash  and  spirit,  and  a  feeling  of  charitable  com- 
passion arose  in  her  heart  at  the  thought  of  the  reception 
which  the  Sejournant  family  would  give  to  this  new  mas- 
ter, so  timid  and  so  little  acquainted  with  the  ways  and 
dispositions  of  country  folk.  Julien  did  not  impress  her 
as  being  able  to  defend  himself  against  the  ill-will  of 
persons  who  would  consider  him  an  intruder,  and  would 

[44] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

certainly  endeavor  to  make  him  pay  dearly  for  the  in- 
heritance of  which  he  had  deprived  them. 

"You  do  not  take  your  wine,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres!" 
said  she,  noticing  that  her  guest's  glass  was  still  full. 

"I  am  not  much  of  a  wine-drinker, "  replied  he,  "and 
besides,  I  never  take  wine  by  itself — I  should  be  obliged 
if  you  would  have  some  water  brought." 

Reine  smiled,  and  passed  him  the  water-bottle. 

"  Indeed  ?  "  she  said,  "  in  that  case,  you  have  not  fallen 
among  congenial  spirits,  for  in  these  mountains  they  like 
good  dinners,  and  have  a  special  weakness  for  Burgundy. 
You  follow  the  chase,  at  any  rate?" 

"No,  Mademoiselle,  I  do  not  know  how  to  handle  a 
gun!" 

"I  suppose  it  is  not  your  intention  to  settle  in 
Vivey?" 

"Why  not?"  replied  he;  "on  the  contrary,  I  intend 
to  inhabit  the  chateau,  and  establish  myself  there 
definitely." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Reine,  laughing,  "you  neither 
drink  nor  hunt,  and  you  intend  to  live  in  our  woods! 
Why,  my  poor  Monsieur,  you  will  die  of  ennui" 

"I  shall  have  my  books  for  companions;  besides, 
solitude  never  has  had  any  terrors  for  me." 

The  young  girl  shook  her  head  incredulously. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  she  continued,  "if  you  do  not 
even  play  at  cards." 

"Never;  games  of  chance  are  repugnant  to  me." 

"Take  notice  that  I  do  not  blame  you,"  she  replied, 
gayly,  "but  I  must  give  you  one  piece  of  advice:  don't 
speak  in  these  neighborhoods  of  your  dislike  of  hunting, 

[45] 


ANDRft  THEURIET 

cards,  or  good  wine;  our  country  folk  would  feel  pity 
for  you,  and  that  would  destroy  your  prestige." 

Julien  gazed  at  her  with  astonishment.  She  turned 
away  to  give  directions  to  La  Guite  about  the  beds  for 
her  guests — then  the  supper  went  on  silently.  As  soon 
as  they  had  swallowed  their  last  mouthful,  the  menser- 
vants  repaired  to  their  dormitory,  situated  in  the  build- 
ings of  the  ancient  forge.  Reine  Vincart  rose  also. 

"This  is  the  time  when  I  put  my  father  to  bed — I  am 
obliged  to  take  leave  of  you,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres. 
Guitiote  will  conduct  you  to  your  room.  For  you, 
driver,  I  have  had  a  bed  made  in  a  small  room  next  to 
the  furnace;  you  will  be  nice  and  warm.  Good-night, 
gentlemen,  sleep  well!" 

She  turned  away,  and  went  to  rejoin  the  paralytic 
sufferer,  who,  as  she  approached,  manifested  his  joy  by 
a  succession  of  inarticulate  sounds. 

The  room  to  which  Guitiote  conducted  Julien  was 
on  the  first  floor,  and  had  a  cheerful,  hospitable  ap- 
pearance. The  walls  were  whitewashed;  the  chairs, 
table,  and  bed  were  of  polished  oak;  a  goodTfire  of  logs 
crackled  in  the  fireplace,  and  between  the  opening  of 
the  white  window-curtains  could  be  seen  a  slender  silver 
crescent  of  moon  gliding  among  the  flitting  clouds.  The 
young  man  went  at  once  to  his  bed ;  but  notwithstand- 
ing the  fatigues  of  the  day,  sleep  did  not  come  to  him. 
Through  the  partition  he  could  hear  the  clear,  sonorous 
voice  of  Reine  singing  her  father  to  sleep  with  one  of  the 
popular  ballads  of  the  country,  and  while  turning  and 
twisting  in  the  homespun  linen  sheets,  scented  with  orris- 
root,  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  this  young  girl,  so 

[46] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

original  in  her  ways,  whose  grace,  energy,  and  frankness 
fascinated  and  shocked  him  at  the  same  time.  At  last 
he  dozed  off;  and  when  the  morning  stir  awoke  him,  the 
sun  was  up  and  struggling  through  the  foggy  atmos- 
phere. 

The  sky  had  cleared  during  the  night;  there  had  been 
a  frost,  and  the  meadows  were  powdered  white.  The 
leaves,  just  nipped  with  the  frost,  were  dropping  softly 
to  the  ground,  and  formed  little  green  heaps  at  the  base 
of  the  trees.  Julien  dressed  himself  hurriedly,  and  de- 
scended to  the  courtyard,  where  the  first  thing  he  saw 
was  the  cabriolet,  which  had  been  brought  in  the  early 
morning  and  which  one  of  the  farm-boys  was  in  the  act 
of  sousing  with  water  in  the  hope  of  freeing  the  hood 
and  wheels  from  the  thick  mud  which  covered  them. 
When  he  entered  the  dining-room,  brightened  by  the 
rosy  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  he  found  Reine  Vincart 
there  before  him.  She  was  dressed  in  a  yellow  striped 
woolen  skirt,  and  a  jacket  of  white  flannel  carelessly 
belted  at  the  waist.  Her  dark  chestnut  hair,  parted 
down  the  middle  and  twisted  into  a  loose  knot  behind, 
lay  in  ripples  round  her  smooth,  open  forehead. 

"  Good-morning,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  she,  in 
her  cordial  tone,  "did  you  sleep  well?  Yes?  I  am 
glad.  You  find  me  busy  attending  to  household  mat- 
ters. My  father  is  still  in  bed,  and  I  am  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  fact  to  arrange  his  little  corner.  The  doctor 
said  he  must  not  be  put  near  the  fire,  so  I  have  made 
a  place  for  him  here;  he  enjoys  it  immensely,  and  I 
arranged  this  nook  to  protect  him  from  draughts." 

And  she  showed  him  how  she  had  put  the  big  easy- 

[47] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

chair,  padded  with  cushions,  in  the  bright  sunlight 
which  streamed  through  the  window,  and  shielded  by 
the  screens,  one  on  each  side.  She  noticed  that  Julien 
was  examining,  with  some  curiosity,  the  uncouth  pict- 
ures from  Epinal,  with  which  the  screens  were  covered. 

"This,"  she  explained,  "is  my  own  invention.  My 
father  is  a  little  weak  in  the  head,  but  he  understands 
a  good  many  things,  although  he  can  not  talk  about 
them.  He  used  to  get  weary  of  sitting  still  all  day  in 
his  chair,  so  I  lined  the  screens  with  these  pictures  in 
order  that  he  might  have  something  to  amuse  him.  He 
is  as  pleased  as  a  child  with  the  bright  colors,  and  I 
explain  the  subjects  to  him.  I  don't  tell  him  much  at 
a  time,  for  fear  of  fatiguing  him.  We  have  got  now  to 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  so  that  we  shall  have  plenty  to 
occupy  us  before  we  reach  the  end." 

She  caught  a  pitying  look  from  her  guest  which 
seemed  to  say:  "The  poor  man  may  not  last  long 
enough  to  reach  the  end."  Doubtless  she  had  the  same 
fear,  for  her  dark  eyes  suddenly  glistened,  she  sighed, 
and  remained  for  some  moments  without  speaking. 

In  the  mean  time  the  magpie,  which  Julien  had  seen 
the  day  before,  was  hopping  around  its  mistress,  like  a 
familiar  spirit;  it  even  had  the  audacity  to  peck  at  her 
hair  and  then  fly  away,  repeating,  in  its  cracked  voice : 
"Reine,  queen  of  the  woods!" 

"Why  *  queen  of  the  woods?' "  asked  Julien,  coloring. 

"Ah!"  replied  the  young  girl,  "it  is  a  nickname  which 
the  people  around  here  give  me,  because  I  am  so  fond 
of  the  trees,  I  spend  all  the  time  I  can  in  our  woods, 
as  much  as  I  can  spare  from  the  work  of  the  farm. 

[48] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

Margot  has  often  heard  my  father  call  me  by  that 
name;  she  remembers  it,  and  is  always  repeating  it." 
"Do  you  like  living  in  this  wild  country?" 
"Very  much.    I  was  born  here,  and  I  like  it." 
"But  you  have  not  always  lived  here?" 
"No;  my  mother,  who  had  lived  in  the  city,  placed 
me  at  school  in  her  own  country,  in  Dijon,    I  received 
there  the  education  of  a  young  lady,  though  there  is  not 
much  to  show  for  it  now.     I  stayed  there  six  years;  then 
my  mother  died,  my  father  fell  ill,  and  I  came  home." 
"And  did  you  not  suffer  from  so  sudden  a  change?" 
"Not  at  all.    You  see  I  am  really  by  nature  a  country 
girl.     I  wish  you  might  not  have  more  trouble  than  I 
had,  in  getting  accustomed  to  your  new  way  of  living, 
in  the  chateau  at  Vivey.     But,"  she  added,  going  toward 
the  fire,  "I  think  they  are  harnessing  the  horse,  and  you 
must  be  hungry.    Your  driver  has  already  primed  him- 
self with  some  toast  and  white  wine.     I  will  not  offer 
you  the  same  kind  of  breakfast.     I  will  get  you  some 
coffee  and  cream." 

He  bent  his  head  in  acquiescence,  and  she  brought 
him  the  coffee  herself,  helping  him  to  milk  and  toasted 
bread.  He  drank  rapidly  the  contents  of  the  cup,  nib- 
bled at  a  slice  of  toast,  and  then,  turning  to  his  hostess, 
said,  with  a  certain  degree  of  embarrassment: 

"There  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  do,  Mademoiselle, 
but  to  express  my  most  heartfelt  thanks  for  your  kind 
hospitality.  It  is  a  good  omen  for  me  to  meet  with  such 
cordiality  on  my  arrival  in  an  unknown  part  of  the 
country.  May  I  ask  you  one  more  question?"  he  con- 
tinued, looking  anxiously  at  her;  "why  do  you  think 
4  [49] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

it  will  be  so  difficult  for  me  to  get  accustomed  to  the  life 
they  lead  here?" 

"Why?"  replied  she,  shaking  her  head,  "because,  to 
speak  frankly,  Monsieur,  you  do  not  give  me  the  idea 
of  having  much  feeling  for  the  country.  You  are  not 
familiar  with  our  ways;  you  will  not  be  able  to  speak  to 
the  people  in  their  language,  and  they  will  not  under- 
stand yours — you  will  be,  in  their  eyes,  'the  city  Mon- 
sieur/ whom  they  will  mistrust  and  will  try  to  circum- 
vent. I  should  like  to  find  that  I  am  mistaken,  but,  at 
present,  I  have  the  idea  that  you  will  encounter  diffi- 
culties down  there  of  which  you  do  not  seem  to  have 
any  anticipation " 

She  was  intercepted  by  the  entrance  of  the  driver, 
who  was  becoming  impatient.  The  horse  was  in  har- 
ness, and  they  were  only  waiting  for  M.  de  Buxieres. 
Julien  rose,  and  after  awkwardly  placing  a  piece  of  silver 
in  the  hand  of  La  Guite,  took  leave  of  Reine  Vincart, 
who  accompanied  him  to  the  threshold. 

"Thanks,  once  more,  Mademoiselle,"  murmured  he, 
"and  au  revoir,  since  we  shall  be  neighbors/' 

He  held  out  his  hand  timidly  and  she  took  it  with 
frank  cordiality.  Julien  got  into  the  cabriolet  beside 
the  driver,  who  began  at  once  to  belabor  vigorously  his 
mulish  animal. 

"Good  journey  and  good  luck,  Monsieur,"  cried 
Reine  after  him,  and  the  vehicle  sped  joltingly  away. 


[So] 


CHAPTER  III 

CONSCIENCE  HIGHER  THAN  THE  LAW 

leaving  La  Thuiliere,  the  driver  took 
the  straight  line  toward  the  pasture- 
lands  of  the  Planche-au-Vacher. 

According  to  the  directions  they  had 
received  from  the  people  of  the  farm, 
they  then  followed  a  rocky  road,  which 
entailed  considerable  jolting  for  the 
travellers,  but  which  led  them  without 
other  difficulty  to  the  bottom  of  a  woody  dell,  where  they 
were  able  to  ford  the  stream.  As  soon  as  they  had,  with 
difficulty,  ascended  the  opposite  hill,  the  silvery  fog  that 
had  surrounded  them  began  to  dissipate,  and  they  dis- 
tinguished a  road  close  by,  which  led  a  winding  course 
through  the  forest. 

"Ah!  now  I  see  my  way!"  said  the  driver,  "we  have 
only  to  go  straight  on,  and  in  twenty  minutes  we  shall 
be  at  Vivey.  This  devil  of  a  fog  cuts  into  one's  skin 
like  a  bunch  of  needles.  With  your  permission,  Mon- 
sieur de  Buxieres,  and  if  it  will  not  annoy  you,  I  will 
light  my  pipe  to  warm  myself." 

Now  that  he  knew  he  was  conducting  the  proprietor 
of  the  chdteau,  he  repented  having  treated  him  so  cava- 
lierly the  day  before;  he  became  obsequious,  and  en- 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

deavored  to  gain  the  good-will  of  his  fare  by  showing 
himself  as  loquacious  as  he  had  before  been  cross  and 
sulky.  But  Julien  de  Buxieres,  too  much  occupied  in 
observing  the  details  of  the  country,  or  in  ruminating 
over  the  impressions  he  had  received  during  the  morn- 
ing, made  but  little  response  to  his  advances,  and  soon 
allowed  the  conversation  to  drop. 

The  sun's  rays  had  by  this  time  penetrated  the  misty 
atmosphere,  and  the  white  frost  had  changed  to  diamond 
drops,  which  hung  tremblingly  on  the  leafless  branches. 
A  gleam  of  sunshine  showed  the  red  tints  of  the  beech- 
trees,  and  the  bright  golden  hue  of  the  poplars,  and  the 
forest  burst  upon  Julien  in  all  the  splendor  of  its  autum- 
nal trappings.  The  pleasant  remembrance  of  Reine 
Vincart's  hospitality  doubtless  predisposed  him  to  enjoy 
the  charm  of  this  sunshiny  morning,  for  he  became,  per- 
haps for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  suddenly  alive  to  the 
beauty  of  this  woodland  scenery.  By  degrees,  toward 
the  left,  the  brushwood  became  less  dense,  and  several 
gray  buildings  appeared  scattered  over  the  glistening 
prairie.  Soon  after  appeared  a  park,  surrounded  by 
low,  crumbling  walls,  then  a  group  of  smoky  roofs,  and 
finally,  surmounting  a  massive  clump  of  ash-trees,  two 
round  towers  with  tops  shaped  like  extinguishers.  The 
coachman  pointed  them  out  to  the  young  man  with  the 
end  of  his  whip. 

"There  is  Vivey,"  said  he,  "and  here  is  your  property, 
Monsieur  de  Buxieres." 

Julien  started,  and,  notwithstanding  his  alienation 
from  worldly  things,  he  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of 
satisfaction  when  he  reflected  that,  by  legal  right,  he 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

was  about  to  become  master  of  the  woods,  the  fields,  and 
the  old  homestead  of  which  the  many-pointed  slate  roofs 
gleamed  in  the  distance.  This  satisfaction  was  mingled 
with  intense  curiosity,  but  it  was  also  somewhat  shad- 
owed by  a  dim  perspective  of  the  technical  details  in- 
cumbent on  his  taking  possession.  No  doubt  he  should 
be  obliged,  in  the  beginning,  to  make  himself  personally 
recognized,  to  show  the  workmen  and  servants  of  the 
chateau  that  the  new  owner  was  equal  to  the  situation. 
Now,  Julien  was  not,  by  nature,  a  man  of  action,  and 
the  delicately  expressed  fears  of  Reine  Vincart  made  him 
uneasy  in  his  mind.  When  the  carriage,  suddenly  turn- 
ing a  corner,  stopped  in  front  of  the  gate  of  entrance,  and 
he  beheld,  through  the  cast-iron  railing,  the  long  avenue 
of  ash-trees,  the  grass-grown  courtyard,  the  silent  facade, 
his  heart  began  to  beat  more  rapidly,  and  his  natural 
timidity  again  took  possession  of  him. 

"The  gate  is  closed,  and  they  don't  seem  to  be  expect- 
ing you,"  remarked  the  driver. 

They  dismounted.  Noticing  that  the  side  door  was 
half  open,  the  coachman  gave  a  vigorous  pull  on  the 
chain  attached  to  the  bell.  At  the  sound  of  the  rusty 
clamor,  a  furious  barking  was  heard  from  an  adjoining 
outhouse,  but  no  one  inside  the  house  seemed  to  take 
notice  of  the  ringing. 

"  Come,  let  us  get  in  all  the  same,"  said  the  coachman, 
giving  another  pull,  and  stealing  a  furtive  look  at  his 
companion's  disconcerted  countenance. 

He  fastened  his  horse  to  the  iron  fence,  and  both 
passed  through  the  side  gate  to  the  avenue,  the  dogs  all 
the  while  continuing  their  uproar.  Just  as  they  reached 

[53] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

the  courtyard,  the  door  opened  and  Manette  Sejour- 
nant  appeared  on  the  doorstep. 

"Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  said  she,  in  a  slow, 
drawling  voice,  "is  it  you  who  are  making  all  this 
noise?" 

The  sight  of  this  tall,  burly  woman,  whose  glance  be- 
tokened both  audacity  and  cunning,  increased  still  more 
Julien's  embarrassment.  He  advanced  awkwardly, 
raised  his  hat  and  replied,  almost  as  if  to  excuse  him- 
self: 

"I  beg  pardon,  Madame — I  am  the  cousin  and  heir 
of  the  late  Claude  de  Buxieres.  I  have  come  to  install 
myself  in  the  chateau,  and  I  had  sent  word  of  my  inten- 
tion to  Monsieur  Arbillot,  the  notary — I  am  surprised 
he  did  not  notify  you." 

"Ah!  it  is  you,  Monsieur  Julien  de  Buxieres!"  ex- 
claimed Madame  Sejournant,  scrutinizing  the  newcomer 
with  a  mingling  of  curiosity  and  scornful  surprise  which 
completed  the  young  man's  discomfiture.  "Monsieur 
Arbillot  was  here  yesterday — he  waited  for  you  all  day, 
and  as  you  did  not  come,  he  went  away  at  "nightfall." 

"I  presume  you  were  in  my  cousin's  service?"  said 
Julien,  amiably,  being  desirous  from  the  beginning  to 
evince  charitable  consideration  with  regard  to  his  rela- 
tive's domestic  affairs. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  replied  Manette,  with  dignified 
sadness;  "I  attended  poor  Monsieur  de  Buxieres 
twenty-six  years,  and  can  truly  say  I  served  him  with 
devotion !  But  now  I  am  only  staying  here  in  charge  of 
the  seals — I  and  my  son  Claudet.  We  have  decided  to 
leave  as  soon  as  the  notary  does  not  want  us  any  more." 

[54] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"I  regret  to  hear  it,  Madame,"  replied  Julien,  who 
was  beginning  to  feel  uncomfortable.  "There  must  be 
other  servants  around — I  should  be  obliged  if  you  would 
have  our  carriage  brought  into  the  yard.  And  then,  if 
you  will  kindly  show  us  the  way,  we  will  go  into  the 
house,  for  I  am  desirous  to  feel  myself  at  home — and 
my  driver  would  not  object  to  some  refreshment." 

"I  will  send  the  cowboy  to  open  the  gate,"  replied 
the  housekeeper.  "If  you  will  walk  this  way,  gentle- 
men, I  will  take  you  into  the  only  room  that  can  be  used 
just  now,  on  account  of  the  seals  on  the  property." 

Passing  in  front  of  them,  she  directed  her  steps  toward 
the  kitchen,  and  made  way  for  them  to  pass  into  the 
smoky  room,  where  a  small  servant  was  making  coffee 
over  a  clear  charcoal  fire.  As  the  travellers  entered,  the 
manly  form  of  Claudet  Sejournant  was  outlined  against 
the  bright  light  of  the  window  at 'his  back. 

"My  son,"  said  Manette,  with  a  meaning  side  look, 
especially  for  his  benefit,  "here  is  Monsieur  de  Bux- 
ieres,  come  to  take  possession  of  his  inheritance." 

The  grand  chasserot  attempted  a  silent  salutation, 
and  then  the  young  men  took  a  rapid  survey  of  each 
other. 

Julien  de  Buxieres  was  startled  by  the  unexpected 
presence  of  so  handsome  a  young  fellow,  robust,  intelli- 
gent, and  full  of  energy,  whose  large  brown  eyes  gazed 
at  him  with  a  kind  of  surprised  and  pitying  compassion 
which  was  very  hard  for  Julien  to  bear.  He  turned 
uneasily  away,  making  a  lame  excuse  of  ordering  some 
wine  for  his  coachman ;  and  while  Manette,  with  an  air 
of  martyrdom,  brought  a  glass  and  a  half-empty  bottle, 

[55] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

Claudet  continued  his  surprised  and  inquiring  examina- 
tion of  the  legal  heir  of  Claude  de  Buxieres. 

The  pale,  slight  youth,  buttoned  up  in  a  close-fitting, 
long  frock-coat,  which  gave  him  the  look  of  a  priest, 
looked  so  unlike  any  of  the  Buxieres  of  the  elder  branch 
that  it  seemed  quite  excusable  to  hesitate  about  the  rela- 
tionship. Claudet  maliciously  took  advantage  of  the 
fact,  and  began  to  interrogate  his  would-be  deposer  by 
pretending  to  doubt  his  identity. " 

"Are  you  certainly  Monsieur  Julien  de  Buxieres ?" 
asked  he,  surveying  him  suspiciously  from  head  to 
foot. 

"Do  you  take  me  for  an  impostor?"  exclaimed  the 
young  man. 

"I  do  not  say  that,"  returned  Claudet,  crossly,  "but 
after  all,  you  do  not  carry  your  name  written  on  your 
face,  and,  by  Jove!  as  guardian  of  the  seals,  I  have 
some  responsibility — I  want  information,  that  is  all!" 

Angry  at  having  to  submit  to  these  inquiries  in  the 
presence  of  the  coachman  who  had  brought  him  from 
Langres,  Julien  completely  lost  control  of  his  temper. 

"Do  you  require  me  to  show  my  papers?"  he  in- 
quired, in  a  haughty,  ironical  tone  of  voice. 

Manette,  foreseeing  a  disturbance,  hastened  to  inter- 
pose, in  her  hypocritical,  honeyed  voice: 

"Leave  off,  Claudet,  let  Monsieur  alone.  He  would 
not  be  here,  would  he,  if  he  hadn't  a  right  ?  As  to 
asking  him  to  prove  his  right,  that  is  not  our  business 
—it  belongs  to  the  justice  and  the  notary.  You  had 
better,  my  son,  go  over  to  Auberive,  and  ask  the  gentle- 
men to  come  to-morrow  to  raise  the  seals." 

[56] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

At  this  moment,  the  cowboy,  who  had  been  sent  to 
open  the  gate,  entered  the  kitchen. 

"The  carriage  is  in  the  courtyard,"  said  he,  "and 
Monsieur's  boxes  are  in  the  hall.  Where  shall  I  put 
them,  Madame  Sejournant?" 

Julien's  eyes  wandered  from  Manette  to  the  young 
boy,  with  an  expression  of  intense  annoyance  and  fa- 
tigue. 

"Why,  truly,"  said  Manette,  "as  a  matter  of  fact, 
there  is  only  the  room  of  our  deceased  master,  where 
the  seals  have  been  released.  Would  Monsieur  object 
to  taking  up  his  quarters  there?" 

"I  am  willing,"  muttered  Julien;  "have  my  luggage 
carried  up  there,  and  give  orders  for  it  to  be  made  ready 
immediately." 

The  housekeeper  gave  a  sign,  and  the  boy  and  the 
servant  disappeared. 

"Madame,"  resumed  Julien,  turning  toward  Manette, 
"if  I  understand  you  right,  I  can  no  longer  reckon  upon 
your  services  to  take  care  of  my  household.  Could  you 
send  me  some  one  to  supply  your  place?" 

"Oh!  as  to  that  matter,"  replied  the  housekeeper, 
still  in  her  wheedling  voice,  "a  day  or  two  more  or  less! 
I  am  not  so  very  particular,  and  I  don't  mind  attending 
to  the  house  as  long  as  I  remain.  At  what  hour  would 
you  wish  to  dine,  Monsieur?" 

"At  the  hour  most  convenient  for  you,"  responded 
Julien,  quickly,  anxious  to  conciliate  her;  "you  will 
serve  my  meals  in  my  room." 

As  the  driver  had  now  finished  his  bottle,  they  left 
the  room  together. 

[57] 


ANDK&  THEURIET 

As  soon  as  the  door  was  closed,  Manette  and  her  son 
exchanged  sarcastic  looks. 

"He  a  Buxieres!"  growled  Claudet.  "He  looks  like 
a  student  priest  in  vacation." 

"He  is  an  efrign&dc"  returned  Manette,  shrugging 
her  shoulders. 

Ecrigneule  is  a  word  of  the  Langrois  dialect,  signify- 
ing a  puny,  sickly,  effeminate  being.  In  the  mouth  of 
Madame  Sejournant,  this  picturesque  expression  ac- 
quired a  significant  amount  of  scornful  energy. 

"And  to  think,"  sighed  Claudet,  twisting  his  hands 
angrily  in  his  bushy  hair,  "that  such  a  slip  of  a  fellow 
is  going  to  be  master  here!" 

"Master?"  repeated  Manette,  shaking  her  head, 
"we'll  see  about  that!  He  does  not  know  anything  at 
all,  and  has  not  what  is  necessary  for  ordering  about. 
In  spite  of  his  fighting-cock  airs,  he  hasn't  two  farthings' 
worth  of  spunk — it  would  be  easy  enough  to  lead  him 
by  the  nose.  Do  you  see,  Claudet,  if  we  were  to  manage 
properly,  instead  of  throwing  the  handle  after  the  blade, 
we  should  be  able  before  two  weeks  are  over  to  have 
rain  or  sunshine  here,  just  as  we  pleased.  We  must 
only  have  a  little  more  policy." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  policy,  mother?" 

"I  mean — letting  things  drag  quietly  on — not  break- 
ing all  the  windows  at  the  first  stroke.  The  lad  is  as 
dazed  as  a  young  bird  that  has  fallen  from  its  nest. 
What  we  have  to  do  is  to  help  him  to  get  control  of  him- 
self, and  accustom  him  not  to  do  without  us.  As  soon 
as  we  have  made  ourselves  necessary  to  him,  he  will  be 
at  our  feet." 

[58] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"Would  you  wish  me  to  become  the  servant  of  the 
man  who  has  cheated  me  out  of  my  inheritance?"  pro- 
tested Claudet,  indignantly. 

"His  servant — no,  indeed!  but  his  companion — why 
not  ?  And  it  would  be  so  easy  if  you  would  only  make 
up  your  mind  to  it,  Claude.  I  tell  you  again,  he  is  not 
ill-natured — he  looks  like  a  man  who  is  up  to  his  neck 
in  devotion.  When  he  once  feels  we  are  necessary  to 
his  comfort,  and  that  some  reliable  person,  like  the 
curate,  for  example,  were  to  whisper  to  him  that  you 
are  the  son  of  Claudet  de  Buxieres,  he  would  have 
scruples,  and  at  last,  half  on  his  own  account,  and  half 
for  the  sake  of  religion,  he  would  begin  to  treat  you  like 
a  relative." 

"No;"  said  Claudet,  firmly,  "these  tricky  ways  do 
not  suit  me.  Monsieur  Arbillot  proposed  yesterday  that 
I  should  do  what  you  advise.  He  even  offered  to  inform 
this  gentleman  of  my  relationship  to  Claude  de  Buxieres. 
I  refused,  and  forbade  the  notary  to  open  his  mouth  on 
the  subject.  What!  should  I  play  the  part  of  a  craven 
hound  before  this  younger  son  whom  my  father  detest- 
ed, and  beg  for  a  portion  of  the  inheritance  ?  Thank 
you!  I  prefer  to  take  myself  out  of  the  way  at  once!" 

"You  prefer  to  have  your  mother  beg  her  bread  at 
strangers'  doors!"  replied  Manette,  bitterly,  shedding 
tears  of  rage. 

"I  have  already  told  you,  mother,  that  when  one  has 
a  good  pair  of  arms,  and  the  inclination  to  use  them, 
one  has  no  need  to  beg  one's  bread.  Enough  said!  I 
am  going  to  Auberive  to  notify  the  justice  and  the 
notary." 

[59] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

While  Claudet  was  striding  across  the  woods,  the  boy 
carried  the  luggage  of  the  newly  arrived  traveller  into 
the  chamber  on  the  first  floor,  and  Zelie,  the  small  ser- 
vant, put  the  sheets  on  the  bed,  dusted  the  room,  and 
lighted  the  fire.  In  a  few  minutes,  Julien  was  alone  in 
his  new  domicile,  and  began  to  open  his  boxes  and 
valises.  The  chimney,  which  had  not  been  used  since 
the  preceding  winter,  smoked  unpleasantly,  and  the 
damp  logs  only  blackened  instead  of  burning.  The 
boxes  lay  wide  open,  and  the  room  of  the  deceased 
Claude  de  Buxieres  had  the  uncomfortable  aspect  of  a 
place  long  uninhabited.  Julien  had  seated  himself  in 
one  of  the  large  armchairs,  covered  in  Utrecht  velvet, 
and  endeavored  to  rekindle  the  dying  fire.  He  felt  at 
loose  ends  and  discouraged,  and  had  no  longer  the 
courage  to  arrange  his  clothes  in  the  open  wardrobes, 
which  stood  open,  emitting  a  strong  odor  of  decaying 
mold. 

The  slight  breath  of  joyous  and  renewed  life  which 
had  animated  him  on  leaving  the  Vincart  farm,  had 
suddenly  evaporated.  His  anticipations  collapsed  in 
the  face  of  these  bristling  realities,  among  which  he 
felt  his  isolation  more  deeply  than  ever  before.  He  re- 
called the  cordiality  of  Reine's  reception,  and  how  she 
had  spoken  of  the  difficulties  he  should  have  to  encoun- 
ter. How  little  he  had  thought  that  her  forebodings 
would  come  true  the  very  same  day!  The  recollection 
of  the  cheerful  and  hospitable  interior  of  La  Thuiliere 
contrasted  painfully  with  his  cold,  bare  Vivey  mansion, 
tenanted  solely  by  hostile  domestics.  Who  were  these 
people — this  Manette  Sejournant  with  her  treacherous 

[60] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

smile,  and  this  fellow  Claudet,  who  had,  at  the  very  first, 
subjected  him  to  such  offensive  questioning  ?  Why  did 
they  seem  so  ill-disposed  toward  him  ?  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  completely  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  contra- 
diction and  ill-will.  He  foresaw  what  an  amount  of 
quiet  but  steady  opposition  he  should  have  to  encounter 
from  these  subordinates,  and  he  became  alarmed  at  the 
prospect  of  having  to  display  so  much  energy  in  order 
to  establish  his  authority  in  the  chateau.  He,  who  had 
pictured  to  himself  a  calm  and  delightful  solitude,  where- 
in he  could  give  himself  up  entirely  to  his  studious  and 
contemplative  tastes.  What  a  contrast  to  the  reality! 

Rousing  himself  at  last,  he  proceeded  mechanically 
to  arrange  his  belongings  in  the  room,  formerly  inhab- 
ited by  his  cousin  de  Buxieres.  He  had  hardly  fin- 
ished when  Zelie  made  her  appearance  with  some  plates 
and  a  tablecloth,  and  began  to  lay  the  covers.  Seeing 
the  fire  had  gone  out,  the  little  servant  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  dismay. 

"Oh!"  cried  she,  "so  the  wood  didn't  flare!" 

He  gazed  at  her  as  if  she  were  talking  Hebrew,  and 
it  was  at  least  a  minute  before  he  understood  that  by 
"flare"  she  meant  kindle. 

"Well,  well!"  she  continued,  "I'll  go  and  fetch  some 
splinters." 

She  returned  in  a  few  moments,  with  a  basket  filled 
with  the  large  splinters  thrown  off  by  the  woodchoppers 
in  straightening  the  logs:  she  piled  these  up  on  the  and- 
irons, and  then,  applying  her  mouth  vigorously  to  a  long 
hollow  tin  tube,  open  at  both  ends,  which  she  carried 
with  her,  soon  succeeded  in  starting  a  steady  flame. 

[6!] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

"Look  there!"  said  she,  in  a  tone  implying  a  certain 
degree  of  contempt  for  the  "city  Monsieur"  who  did  not 
even  know  how  to  keep  up  a  fire,  "isn't  that  clever? 
Now  I  must  lay  the  cloth." 

While  she  went  about  her  task,  arranging  the  plates, 
the  water-bottle,  and  glasses  symmetrically  around  the 
table,  Julien  tried  to  engage  her  in  conversation.  But 
the  little  maiden,  either  because  she  had  been  cautioned 
beforehand,  or  because  she  did  not  very  well  compre- 
hend M.  de  Buxieres's  somewhat  literary  style  of 
French,  would  answer  only  in  monosyllables,  or  else 
speak  only  in  patois,  so  that  Julien  had  to  give  up  the 
idea  of  getting  any  information  out  of  her.  Certainly, 
Mademoiselle  Vincart  was  right  in  saying  that  he  did 
not  know  the  language  of  these  people. 

He  ate  without  appetite  the  breakfast  on  which 
Manette  had  employed  all  her  culinary  art,  barely 
tasted  the  roast  partridge,  and  to  Z£lie's  great  astonish- 
ment, mingled  the  old  Burgundy  wine  with  a  large 
quantity  of  water. 

"You  will  inform  Madame  Sejournant,"  said  he  to 
the  girl,  as  he  folded  his  napkin,  "that  I  am  not  a  great 
eater,  and  that  one  dish  will  suffice  me  in  future." 

He  left  her  to  clear  away,  and  went  out  to  look  at  the 
domain  which  he  was  to  call  his  own.  It  did  not  take 
him  very  long.  The  twenty  or  thirty  white  houses, 
which  constituted  the  village  and  lay  sleeping  in  the 
wooded  hollow  like  eggs  in  a  nest,  formed  a  curious  cir- 
cular line  around  the  chateau.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had 
gone  the  whole  length  of  it,  and  the  few  people  he  met 
gave  him  only  a  passing  glance,  in  which  curiosity 

[62] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

seemed  to  have  more  share  than  any  hospitable  feeling. 
He  entered  the  narrow  church  under  the  patronage  of 
Our  Lady;  the  gray  light  which  entered  through  the 
moldy  shutters  showed  a  few  scattered  benches  of  oak, 
and  the  painted  wooden  altar.  He  knelt  down  and 
endeavored  to  collect  his  thoughts,  but  the  rude  sur- 
roundings of  this  rustic  sanctuary  did  not  tend  to  com- 
fort his  troubled  spirit,  and  he  became  conscious  of  a 
sudden  withering  of  all  religious  fervor.  He  turned 
and  left  the  place,  taking  a  path  that  led  through  the 
forest.  It  did  not  interest  him  more  than  the  village; 
the  woods  spoke  no  language  which  his  heart  could  un- 
derstand ;  he  could  not  distinguish  an  ash  from  an  oak, 
and  all  the  different  plants  were  included  by  him  under 
one  general  term  of  "weeds";  but  he  needed  bodily 
fatigue  and  violent  physical  agitation  to  dissipate  the 
overpowering  feeling  of  discouragement  that  weighed 
down  his  spirits.  He  walked  for  several  hours  without 
seeing  anything,  nearly  got  lost,  and  did  not  reach  home 
till  after  dark.  Once  more  the  little  servant  appeared 
with  his  meal,  which  he  ate  in  an  abstracted  manner, 
without  even  asking  whether  he  were  eating  veal  or 
mutton;  then  he  went  immediately  to  bed,  and  fell  into 
an  uneasy  sleep.  And  thus  ended  his  first  day. 

The  next  morning,  about  nine  o'clock,  he  was  in- 
formed that  the  justice  of  the  peace,  the  notary,  and  the 
clerk,  were  waiting  for  him  below.  He  hastened  down 
and  found  the  three  functionaries  busy  conferring  in  a 
low  voice  with  Manette  and  Claudet.  The  conversation 
ceased  suddenly  upon  his  arrival,  and  during  the  embar- 
rassing silence  that  followed,  all  eyes  were  directed  to- 

[63] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

ward  Julien,  who  saluted  the  company  and  delivered  to 
the  justice  the  documents  proving  his  identity,  begging 
him  to  proceed  without  delay  to  the  legal  breaking  of  the 
seals.  They  accordingly  began  operations,  and  went 
through  all  the  house  without  interruption,  accompanied 
by  Claudet,  who  stood  stiff  and  sullen  behind  the 
justice,  taking  advantage  of  every  little  opportunity  to 
testify  his  dislike  and  ill-feeling  toward  the  legal  heir  of 
Claude  de  Buxieres.  Toward  eleven  o'clock,  the  pro- 
ceedings came  to  an  end,  the  papers  were  signed,  and 
Julien  was  regularly  invested  with  his  rights.  But  the 
tiresome  formalities  were  not  yet  over:  he  had  to  invite 
the  three  officials  to  breakfast.  This  event,  however, 
had  been  foreseen  by  Manette.  Since  early  morning 
she  had  been  busy  preparing  a  bountiful  repast,  and  had 
even  called  Julien  de  Buxieres  aside  in  order  to  instruct 
him  in  the  hospitable  duties  which  his  position  and  the 
customs  of  society  imposed  upon  him. 

As  they  entered  the  dining-room,  young  de  Buxieres 
noticed  that  covers  were  laid  for  five  people;  he  began 
to  wonder  who  the  fifth  guest  could  be,  when  an  acci- 
dental remark  of  the  clerk  showed  him  that  the  un- 
known was  no  other  than  Claudet.  The  fact  was  that 
Manette  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  her  son,  who  had 
always  sat  at  table  with  the  late  Claude  de  Buxieres, 
should  be  consigned  to  the  kitchen  in  presence  of  these 
distinguished  visitors  from  Auberive,  and  had  deliber- 
ately laid  a  place  for  him  at  the  master's  table,  hoping 
that  the  latter  would  not  dare  put  any  public  affront 
upon  Claudet.  She  was  not  mistaken  in  her  idea. 
Julien,  anxious  to  show  a  conciliatory  spirit,  and  mak- 

[64] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

ing  an  effort  to  quell  his  own  repugnance,  approached 
the  grand  chasserot,  who  was  standing  at  one  side  by 
himself,  and  invited  him  to  take  his  seat  at  the  table. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Claudet,  coldly,  "I  have  break- 
fasted. "  So  saying,  he  turned  his  back  on  M.  de 
Buxieres,  who  returned  to  the  hall,  vexed  and  discon- 
certed. 

The  repast  was  abundant,  and  seemed  of  intermina- 
ble length  to  Julien.  The  three  guests,  whose  appetites 
had  been  sharpened  by  their  morning  exercise,  did  honor 
to  Madame  Sejournant's  cooking;  they  took  their  wine 
without  water,  and  began  gradually  to  thaw  under  the 
influence  of  their  host's  good  Burgundy;  evincing  their 
increased  liveliness  by  the  exchange  of  heavy  country 
witticisms,  or  relating  noisy  and  interminable  stories  of 
their  hunting  adventures.  Their  conversation  was  very 
trying  to  Julien's  nerves.  Nevertheless,  he  endeavored 
to  fulfil  his  duties  as  master  of  the  house,  throwing  in  a 
word  now  and  then,  so  as  to  appear  interested  in  their 
gossip,  but  he  ate  hardly  a  mouthful.  His  features  had 
a  pinched  expression,  and  every  now  and  then  he  caught 
himself  trying  to  smother  a  yawn.  His  companions  at 
the  table  could  not  understand  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
eight  years  who  drank  nothing  but  water,  scorned  all 
enjoyment  in  eating,  and  only  laughed  forcedly  under 
compulsion.  At  last,  disturbed  by  the  continued  taci- 
turnity of  their  host,  they  rose  from  the  table  sooner  than 
their  wont,  and  prepared  to  take  leave.  Before  their  de- 
parture, Arbillot  the  notary,  passed  his  arm  familiarly 
through  that  of  Julien  and  led  him  into  an  adjoining 
room,  which  served  as  billiard-hall  and  library. 
5  [65] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

"Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  pile 
of  law  papers  heaped  upon  the  green  cloth  of  the  table; 
"see  what  I  have  prepared  for  you;  you  will  find  there 
all  the  titles  and  papers  relating  to  the  real  estate,  pic- 
tures, current  notes,  and  various  matters  of  your  inherit- 
ance. You  had  better  keep  them  under  lock  and  key, 
and  study  them  at  your  leisure.  You  will  find  them  very 
interesting.  I  need  hardly  say,"  he  added,  "that  I  am 
at  your  service  for  any  necessary  advice  or  explanation. 
But,  in  respect  to  any  minor  details,  you  can  apply  to 
Claudet  Sejournant,  who  is  very  intelligent  in  such 
matters,  and  a  good  man  of  business.  And,  by  the 
way,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  will  you  allow  me  to  com- 
mend the  young  man  especially  to  your  kindly  consid- 
eration  " 

But  Julien  interrupted  him  with  an  imperious  gesture, 
and  replied,  frowning  angrily : 

"  If  you  please,  Maitre  Arbillot,  we  will  not  enter  upon 
that  subject.  I  have  already  tried  my  best  to  show  a 
kindly  feeling  toward  Monsieur  Claudet,  but  I  have  been 
only  here  twenty-four  hours,  and  he  has  already  found 
opportunities  for  affronting  me  twice.  I  beg  you  not  to 
speak  of  him  again." 

The  notary,  who  was  just  lighting  his  pipe,  stopped 
suddenly.  Moved  by  a  feeling  of  good-fellowship  for 
the  grand  chasserot,  who  had,  however,  enjoined  him  to 
silence,  he  had  it  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  inform  Julien 
of  the  facts  concerning  the  parentage  of  Claudet  de  Bux- 
ieres; but,  however  much  he  wished  to  render  Claudet 
a  service,  he  was  still  more  desirous  of  respecting  the 
feelings  of  his  client;  so,  between  the  hostility  of  one 

[66] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

party  and  the  backwardness  of  the  other,  he  chose  the 
wise  part  of  inaction. 

"That  is  sufficient,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  replied 
he,  "I  will  not  press  the  matter. " 

Thereupon  he  saluted  his  client,  and  went  to  rejoin 
the  justice  and  the  clerk,  and  the  three  comrades 
wended  their  way  to  Auberive  through  the  woods,  dis- 
cussing the  incidents  of  the  breakfast,  and  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  new  proprietor. 

"This  de  Buxieres,"  said  M.  Destourbet,  "does  not 
at  all  resemble  his  deceased  cousin  Claude!" 

"I  can  quite  understand  why  the  two  families  kept 
apart  from  each  other,"  observed  the  notary,  jocosely. 

"Poor  chasserot!"  whined  Seurrot  the  clerk,  whom 
the  wine  had  rendered  tender-hearted;  "he  will  not 
have  a  penny.  I  pity  him  with  all  my  heart!" 

As  soon  as  the  notary  had  departed,  Julien  came  to 
the  determination  of  transforming  into  a  study  the  hall 
where  he  had  been  conferring  with  Maitre  Arbillot, 
which  was  dignified  with  the  title  of  "library,"  although 
it  contained  at  the  most  but  a  few  hundred  odd  volumes. 
The  hall  was  spacious,  and  lighted  by  two  large  windows 
opening  on  the  garden;  the  floor  was  of  oak,  and  there 
was  a  great  fireplace  where  the  largest  logs  used  in  a 
country  in  which  the  wood  costs  nothing  could  find 
ample  room  to  blaze  and  crackle.  It  took  the  young 
man  several  days  to  make  the  necessary  changes,  and 
during  that  time  he  enjoyed  a  respite  from  the  petty 
annoyances  worked  by  the  steady  hostility  of  Manette 
Sejournant  and  her  son.  To  the  great  indignation  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  chateau,  he  packed  off  the  massive 

[67] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

billiard-table,  on  which  Claude  de  Buxieres  had  so  often 
played  in  company  with  his  chosen  friends,  to  the  garret ; 
after  which  the  village  carpenter  was  instructed  to  make 
the  bookshelves  ready  for  the  reception  of  Julien's  own 
books,  which  were  soon  to  arrive  by  express.  When  he 
had  got  through  with  these  labors,  he  turned  his  atten- 
tion to  the  documents  placed  in  his  hands  by  the  notary, 
endeavoring  to  find  out  by  himself  the  nature  of  his 
revenues.  He  thought  this  would  be  a  very  easy  matter, 
but  he  soon  found  that  it  was  encumbered  with  inex- 
tricable difficulties. 

A  large  part  of  the  products  of  the  domain  consisted 
of  lumber  ready  for  sale.  Claude  de  Buxieres  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  superintending,  either  personally  or 
through  his  intermediate  agents,  one  half  of  the  annual 
amount  of  lumber  felled  for  market,  the  sale  of  which 
was  arranged  with  the  neighboring  forge  owners  by 
mutual  agreement;  the  other  half  was  disposed  of  by 
notarial  act.  This  latter  arrangement  was  clear  and 
comprehensible;  the  price  of  sale  and  the  amounts  fall- 
ing due  were  both  clearly  indicated  in  the  deed.  But  it 
was  quite  different  with  the  bargains  made  by  the  owner 
himself,  which  were  often  credited  by  notes  payable  at 
sight,  mostly  worded  in  confused  terms,  unintelligible 
to  any  but  the  original  writer.  Julien  became  com- 
pletely bewildered  among  these  various  documents,  the 
explanations  in  which  were  harder  to  understand  than 
conundrums.  Although  greatly  averse  to  following  the 
notary's  advice  as  to  seeking  Claudet's  assistance,  he 
found  himself  compelled  to  do  so,  but  was  met  by  such 
laconic  and  surly  answers  that  he  concluded  it  would  be 

[68] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

more  dignified  on  his  part  to  dispense  with  the  services 
of  one  who  was  so  badly  disposed  toward  him.  He 
therefore  resolved  to  have  recourse  to  the  debtors  them- 
selves, whose  names  he  found,  after  much  difficulty,  in 
the  books.  These  consisted  mostly  of  peasants  of  the 
neighborhood,  who  came  to  the  chateau  at  his  summons; 
but  as  soon  as  they  came  into  Julien's  presence,  they 
discovered,  with  that  cautious  perception  which  is  an 
instinct  with  rustic  minds,  that  before  them  stood  a  man 
completely  ignorant  of  the  customs  of  the  country,  and 
very  poorly  informed  on  Claude  de  Buxieres's  affairs. 
They  made  no  scruple  of  mystifying  this  "city  gentle- 
man," by  means  of  ambiguous  statements  and  cunning 
reticence.  The  young  man  could  get  no  enlightenment 
from  them ;  all  he  clearly  understood  was,  that  they  were 
making  fun  of  him,  and  that  he  was  not  able  to  cope 
with  these  country  bumpkins,  whose  shrewdness  would 
have  done  honor  to  the  most  experienced  lawyer. 

After  a  few  days  he  became  discouraged  and  dis- 
gusted. He  could  see  nothing  but  trouble  ahead;  he 
seemed  surrounded  by  either  open  enemies  or  people 
inclined  to  take  advantage  of  him.  It  was  plain  that  all 
the  population  of  the  village  looked  upon  him  as  an 
intruder,  a  troublesome  master,  a  stranger  whom  they 
would  like  to  intimidate  and  send  about  his  business. 
Manette  Sejournant,  who  was  always  talking  about  go- 
ing, still  remained  in  the  chateau,  and  was  evidently 
exerting  her  influence  to  keep  her  son  also  with  her. 
The  fawning  duplicity  of  this  woman  was  unbearable 
to  Julien;  he  had  not  the  energy  necessary  either  to 
subdue  her,  or  to  send  her  away,  and  she  appeared  every 

[69] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

morning  before  him  with  a  string  of  hypocritical  griev- 
ances, and  opposing  his  orders  with  steady,  irritating 
inertia.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  endeavoring  to  render 
his  life  at  Vivey  hateful  to  him,  so  that  he  would  be 
compelled  finally  to  beat  a  retreat. 

One  morning  in  November  he  had  reached  such  a 
state  of  moral  fatigue  and  depression  that,  as  he  sat 
listlessly  before  the  library  fire,  the  question  arose  in  his 
mind  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  rent  the  chateau, 
place  the  property  in  the  hands  of  a  manager,  and  take 
himself  and  his  belongings  back  to  Nancy,  to  his  little 
room  in  the  Rue  Stanislaus,  where,  at  any  rate,  he  could 
read,  meditate,  or  make  plans  for  the  future  without 
being  every  moment  tormented  by  miserable,  petty 
annoyances.  His  temper  was  becoming  soured,  his 
nerves  were  unstrung,  and  his  mind  was  so  disturbed 
that  he  fancied  he  had  none  but  enemies  around  him.  A 
cloudy  melancholy  seemed  to  invade  his  brain ;  he  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  fear  that  he  was  about  to  have  an 
attack  of  persecution-phobia,  and  began  to  feel  his 
pulse  and  interrogate  his  sensations  to  see  whether  he 
could  detect  any  of  the  premonitory  symptoms. 

While  he  was  immersing  himself  in  this  unwholesome 
atmosphere  of  hypochondria,  the  sound  of  a  door  open- 
ing and  shutting  made  him  start;  he  turned  quickly 
around,  saw  a  young  woman  approaching  and  smiling 
at  him,  and  at  last  recognized  Reine  Vincart. 

She  wore  the  crimped  linen  cap  and  the  monk's  hood 
in  use  among  the  peasants  of  the  richer  class.  Her 
wavy,  brown  hair,  simply  parted  in  front,  fell  in  rebel- 
lious curls  from  under  the  border  of  her  cap,  of  which 

[7o] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

the  only  decoration  was  a  bow  of  black  ribbon;  the  end 
floating  gracefully  over  her  shoulders.  The  sharp  No- 
vember air  had  imparted  a  delicate  rose  tint  to  her  pale 
complexion,  and  additional  vivacity  to  her  luminous, 
dark  eyes. 

"Good-morning,  Monsieur  de  Buxifcres,"  said  she,  in 
her  clear,  pleasantly  modulated  voice;  "I  think  you 
may  remember  me  ?  It  is  not  so  long  since  we  saw  each 
other  at  the  farm." 

1 '  Mademoiselle  Vincart ! ' '  exclaimed  Julien .  ' '  Why, 
certainly  I  remember  you!" 

He  drew  a  chair  toward  the  fire,  and  offered  it  to  her. 
This  charming  apparition  of  his  cordial  hostess  at  La 
Thuiliere  evoked  the  one  pleasant  remembrance  in  his 
mind  since  his  arrival  in  Vivey.  It  shot,  like  a  ray  of 
sunlight,  across  the  heavy  fog  of  despair  which  had  en- 
veloped the  new  master  of  the  chateau.  It  was,  there- 
fore, with  real  sincerity  that  he  repeated: 

"I  both  know  you  and  am  delighted  to  see  you.  I 
ought  to  have  called  upon  you  before  now,  to  thank  you 
for  your  kind  hospitality,  but  I  have  had  so  much  to  do, 
and,"  his  face  clouding  over,  "so  many  annoyances!" 

"Really?"  said  she,  softly,  gazing  pityingly  at  him; 
"you  must  not  take  offence,  but,  it  is  easy  to  see  you 
have  been  worried!  Your  features  are  drawn  and  you 
have  an  anxious  look.  Is  it  that  the  air  of  Vivey  does 
not  agree  with  you?" 

"It  is  not  the  air,"  replied  Julien,  in  an  irritated  tone, 
"it  is  the  people  who  do  not  agree  with  me.  And, 
indeed,"  sighed  he,  "I  do  not  think  I  agree  any  better 
with  them.  But  I  need  not  annoy  other  persons  merely 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

because  I  am  annoyed  myself!  Mademoiselle  Vincart, 
what  can  I  do  to  be  of  service  to  you?  Have  you  any- 
thing to  ask  me?" 

"Not  at  all!"  exclaimed  Reine,  with  a  frank  smile; 
"I  not  only  have  nothing  to  ask  from  you,  but  I  have 
brought  something  for  you — six  hundred  francs  for  wood 
we  had  bought  from  the  late  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  dur- 
ing the  sale  of  the  Ronces  forest."  She  drew  from  under 
her  cloak  a  little  bag  of  gray  linen,  containing  gold, 
five-franc  pieces  and  bank-notes.  "Will  you  be  good 
enough  to  verify  the  amount?"  continued  she,  emptying 
the  bag  upon  the  table;  "I  think  it  is  correct.  You 
must  have  somewhere  a  memorandum  of  the  transac- 
tion in  writing." 

Julien  began  to  look  through  the  papers,  but  he  got 
bewildered  with  the  number  of  rough  notes  jotted  down 
on  various  slips  of  paper,  until  at  last,  in  an  impatient 
fit  of  vexation,  he  flung  the  whole  bundle  away,  scatter- 
ing the  loose  sheets  all  over  the  floor. 

"Who  can  find  anything  in  such  a  chaos?"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  can't  see  my  way  through  it,  and  when  I 
try  to  get  information  from  the  people  here,  they  seem 
to  have  an  understanding  among  themselves  to  leave 
me  under  a  wrong  impression,  or  even  to  make  my  un- 
certainties still  greater!  Ah!  Mademoiselle  Reine,  you 
were  right!  I  do  not  understand  the  ways  of  your 
country  folk.  Every  now  and  then  I  am  tempted  to 
leave  everything  just  as  it  stands,  and  get  away  from 
this  village,  where  the  people  mistrust  me  and  treat  me 
like  an  enemy!" 

Reine  gazed  at  him  with  a  look  of  compassionate 
[72] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

surprise.  Stooping  quietly  down,  she  picked  up  the 
scattered  papers,  and  while  putting  them  in  order  on 
the  table,  she  happened  to  see  the  one  relating  to  her 
own  business. 

"Here,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  she,  "here  is  the 
very  note  you  were  looking  for.  You  seem  to  be  some- 
what impatient.  Our  country  folk  are  not  so  bad  as 
you  think;  only  they  do  not  yield  easily  to  new  influ- 
ences. The  beginning  is  always  difficult  for  them.  I 
know  something  about  it  myself.  When  I  returned 
from  Dijon  to  take  charge  of  the  affairs  at  La  Thuiliere, 
I  had  no  more  experience  than  you,  Monsieur,  and  I 
had  great  difficulty  in  accomplishing  anything.  Where 
should  we  be  now,  if  I  had  suffered  myself  to  be  dis- 
couraged, like  you,  at  the  very  outset?"  * 

Julien  raised  his  eyes  toward  the  speaker,  coloring 
with  embarrassment  to  hear  himself  lectured  by  this 
young  peasant  girl,  whose  ideas,  however,  had  much 
more  virility  than  his  own. 

"You  reason  like  a  man,  Mademoiselle  Vincart," 
remarked  he,  admiringly,  "pray,  how  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty- two  years;  and  you,  Monsieur  de  Bux- 
ieres?" 

"I  shall  soon  be  twenty-eight." 

"There  is  not  much  difference  between  us;  still,  you 
are  the  older,  and  what  I  have  done,  you  can  do  also." 

"Oh!"  sighed  he,  "you  have  a  love  of  action.  I 
have  a  love  of  repose — I  do  not  like  to  act." 

"So  much  the  worse!"  replied  Reine,  very  decidedly. 
"A  man  ought  to  show  more  energy.  Come  now,  Mon- 
sieur de  Buxieres,  will  you  allow  me  to  speak  frankly  to 

[73] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

you  ?  If  you  wish  people  to  come  to  you,  you  must  first 
get  out  of  yourself  and  go  to  seek  them;  if  you  expect 
your  neighbor  to  show  confidence  and  good-will  toward 
you,  you  must  be  open  and  good-natured  toward 
him." 

"That  plan  has  not  yet  succeeded  with  two  persons 
around  here,"  replied  Julien,  shaking  his  head. 

"Which  persons?" 

"The  Sejournants,  mother  and  son.  I  tried  to  be 
pleasant  with  Claudet,  and  received  from  both  only 
rebuffs  and  insolence." 

"Oh!  as  to  Claudet,"  resumed  she,  impulsively,  "he 
is  excusable.  You  can  not  expect  he  will  be  very  gra- 
cious in  his  reception  of  the  person  who  has  supplant- 
ed him "• 

"Supplanted? — I  do  not  understand." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Reine,  "have  they  riot  told  you 
anything,  then?  That  is  wrong.  Well,  at  the  risk  of 
meddling  in  what  does  not  concern  me,  I  think  it  is 
better  to  put  you  in  possession  of  the  facts:  Your 
deceased  cousin  never  was  married,  but  he  had^a  child 
all  the  same — Claudet  is  his  son,  and  he  intended  that 
he  should  be  his  heir  also.  Every  one  around  the  coun- 
try knows  that,  for  Monsieur  de  Buxieres  made  no  se- 
cret of  it " 

" Claudet,  the  son  of  Claude  de  Buxieres?"  ejaculated 
Julien,  with  amazement.  . 

"Yes;  and  if  the  deceased  had  had  the  time  to  make 
his  will,  you  would  not  be  here  now.  But,"  added  the 
young  girl,  coloring,  "don't  tell  Claudet  I  have  spoken 
to  you  about  it.  I  have  been  talking  here  too  long. 

[74] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
reckon  up  your  money  and  give  me  a  receipt?" 

She  had  risen,  and  Julien  gazed  wonderingly  at  the 
pretty  country  girl  who  had  shown  herself  so  sensible, 
so  resolute,  and  so  sincere.  He  bent  his  head,  collected 
the  money  on  the  table,  scribbled  hastily  a  receipt  and 
handed  it  to  Reine. 

"Thank  you,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "you  are  the 
first  person  who  has  been  frank  with  me,  and  I  am 
grateful  to  you  for  it." 

"Au  revoir,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres." 

She  had  already  gained  the  door  while  he  made  an 
awkward  attempt  to  follow  her.  She  turned  toward 
him  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes. 

"  Come,  take  courage ! "  she  added,  and  then  vanished. 

Julien  went  back  dreamily,  and  sat  down  again  before 
the  hearth.  The  revelation  made  by  Reine  Vincart  had 
completely  astounded  him.  Such  was  his  happy  inex- 
perience of  life,  that  he  had  not  for  a  moment  suspected 
the  real  position  of  Manette  and  her  son  at  the  chateau. 
And  it  was  this  young  girl  who  had  opened  his  eyes 
to  the  factl  He  experienced  a  certain  degree  of  hu- 
miliation in  having  had  so  little  perception.  Now  that 
Reine's  explanation  enabled  him  to  view  the  matter  from 
a  different  standpoint,  he  found  Claudet's  attitude  to- 
ward him  both  intelligible  and  excusable.  In  fact,  the 
lad  was  acting  in  accordance  with  a  very  legitimate  feel- 
ing of  mingled  pride  and  anger.  After  all,  he  really  was 
Claude  de  Buxieres's  son — a  natural  son,  certainly, 
but  one  who  had  been  implicitly  acknowledged  both  in 
private  and  in  public  by  his  father.  If  the  latter  had 

[75] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

had  time  to  draw  up  the  incomplete  will  which  had  been 
found,  he  would,  to  all  appearances,  have  made  Claudet 
his  heir.  Therefore,  the  fortune  of  which  Julien  had 
become  possessed,  he  owed  to  some  unexpected  occur- 
rence, a  mere  chance.  Public  opinion  throughout  the 
entire  village  tacitly  recognized  and  accepted  the  grand 
chasserot  as  son  of  the  deceased,  and  if  this  recognition 
had  been  made  legally,  he  would  have  been  rightful 
owner  of  half  the  property. 

"Now  that  I  have  been  made  acquainted  with  this 
position  of  affairs,  what  is  my  duty?"  asked  Julien  of 
himself.  Devout  in  feeling  and  in  practice,  he  was  also 
very  scrupulous  in  all  matters  of  conscience,  and  the 
reply  was  not  long  in  coming:  that  both  religion  and 
uprightness  commanded  him  to  indemnify  Claudet  for 
the  wrong  caused  to  him  by  the  carelessness  of  Claude 
de  Buxieres.  Reine  had  simply  told  him  the  facts  with- 
out attempting  to  give  him  any  advice,  but  it  was  evident 
that,  according  to  her  loyal  and  energetic  way  of  think- 
ing, there  was  injustice  to  be  repaired.  Julien  was 
conscious  that  by  acting  to  that  effect  he  would  certainly 
gain  the  esteem  and  approbation  of  his  amiable  hostess 
of  La  Thuiliere,  and  he  felt  a  secret  satisfaction  in  the 
idea.  He  rose  suddenly,  and,  leaving  the  library,  went 
to  the  kitchen,  where  Manette  Sejournant  was  busy  pre- 
paring the  breakfast. 

' '  Where  is  your  son  ? ' '  said  he .  "I  wish  to  speak  with 
him." 

Manette  looked  inquiringly  at  him. 

"My  son,"  she  replied,  "is  in  the  garden,  fixing  up  a 
box  to  take  away  his  little  belongings  in — he  doesn't 

[76] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

want  to  stay  any  longer  at  other  peoples'  expense.  And, 
by  the  way,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  have  the  goodness 
to  provide  yourself  with  a  servant  to  take  my  place ;  we 
shall  not  finish  the  week  here." 

Without  making  any  reply,  Julien  went  out  by  the 
door,  leading  to  the  garden,  and  discovered  Claudet 
really  occupied  in  putting  together  the  sides  of  a  pack- 
ing-case. Although  the  latter  saw  the  heir  of  the  de 
Buxieres  family  approaching,  he  continued  driving  in 
the  nails  without  appearing  to  notice  his  presence. 

"Monsieur  Claudet,"  said  Julien,  "can  you  spare  me 
a  few  minutes?  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you." 

Claudet  raised  his  head,  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
then,  throwing  away  his  hammer  and  putting  on  his 
loose  jacket,  muttered: 

"I  am  at  your  service." 

They  left  the  outhouse  together,  and  entered  an 
avenue  of  leafy  lime-trees,  which  skirted  the  banks  of 
the  stream. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Julien,  stopping  in  the  middle  of 
the  walk;  "excuse  me  if  I  venture  on  a  delicate  subject 
— but  I  must  do  so — now  that  I  know  all." 

"  Beg  pardon — what  do  you  know  ?  "  demanded  Clau- 
det, reddening. 

"I  know  that  you  are  the  son  of  my  cousin  de  Bux- 
ieres," replied  the  young  man  with  considerable  emo- 
tion. 

The  grand  chasserot  knitted  his  brows. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  bitterly,  "my  mother's  tongue  has 
been  too  long,  or  else  that  blind  magpie  of  a  notary  has 
been  gossiping,  notwithstanding  my  instructions." 

[77] 


ANDRfe  THEURIET 

"No;  neither  your  mother  nor  Maitre  Arbillot  has 
been  speaking  to  me.  What  I  know  I  have  learned 
from  a  stranger,  and  I  know  also  that  you  would  be 
master  here  if  Claude  de  Buxieres  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  write  out  his  will.  His  negligence  on  that 
point  has  been  a  wrong  to  you,  which  it  is  my  duty  to 
repair." 

"What's  that!"  exclaimed  Claudet.  Then  he  mut- 
tered between  his  teeth:  "You  owe  me  nothing.  The 
law  is  on  your  side." 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  consulting  the  law  when  it 
is  a  question  of  duty.  Besides,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres 
treated  you  openly  as  his  son;  if  he  had  done  what  he 
ought,  made  a  legal  acknowledgment,  you  would  have 
the  right,  even  in  default  of  a  will,  to  one  half  of  his 
patrimony.  This  half  I  come  to  offer  to  you,  and  beg 
of  you  to  accept  it." 

Claudet  was  astonished,  and  opened  his  great,  fierce 
brown  eyes  with  amazement.  The  proposal  seemed  so 
incredible  that  he  thought  he  must  be  dreaming,  and 
mistrusted  what  he  heard. 

"What!  You  offer  me  half  the  inheritance?"  faltered 
he. 

"Yes;  and  I  am  ready  to  give  you  a  certified  deed  of 
relinquishment  as  soon  as  you  wish " 

Claudet  interrupted  him  with  a  violent  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

"I  make  but  one  condition,"  pursued  Julien. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Claudet,  still  on  the  defensive. 

"That  you  will  continue  to  live  here,  with  me,  as  in 
your  father's  time." 

[78] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

Claudet  was  nearly  overcome  by  this  last  suggestion, 
but  a  lingering  feeling  of  doubt  and  a  kind  of  innate 
pride  prevented  him  from  giving  way,  and  arrested  the 
expression  of  gratitude  upon  his  lips. 

"What  you  propose  is  very  generous,  Monsieur,"  said 
he,  "but  you  have  not  thought  much  about  it,  and  later 
you  might  regret  it.  If  I  were  to  stay  here,  I  should  be 
a  restraint  upon  you " 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  would  be  rendering  me  a  ser- 
vice, for  I  feel  myself  incapable  of  managing  the  prop- 
erty," replied  Julien,  earnestly.  Then,  becoming  more 
confidential  as  his  conscience  was  relieved  of  its  burden, 
he  continued,  pleasantly :  "  You  see  I  am  not  vain  about 
admitting  the  fact.  Come,  cousin,  don't  be  more  proud 
than  I  am.  Accept  freely  what  I  offer  with  hearty  good- 
will!" 

As  he  concluded  these  words,  he  felt  his  hand  seized, 
and  affectionately  pressed  in  a  strong,  robust  grip. 

"You  are  a  true  de  Buxi&res!"  exclaimed  Claudet, 
choking  with  emotion.  "I  accept — thanks — but,  what 
have  I  to  give  you  in  exchange  ? — nothing  but  my  friend- 
ship; but  that  will  be  as  firm  as  my  grip,  and  will  last 
all  my  life." 


t79l 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   DAWN  OF  LOVE 

•INTER  had  come,  and  with  it  all  the 
inclement  accompaniments  usual  in 
this  bleak  and  bitter  mountainous 
country:  icy  rains,  which,  mingled  with 
sleet,  washed  away  whirlpools  of  with- 
ered leaves  that  the  swollen  streams 
tossed  noisily  into  the  ravines;  sharp, 
cutting  winds  from  the  north,  bleak 
frosts  hardening  the  earth  and  vitrifying  the  cascades; 
abundant  falls  of  snow,  lasting  sometimes  an  entire 
week.  The  roads  had  become  impassable.  A  thick, 
white  crust  covered  alike  the  pasture-lands,  the  stony 
levels,  and  the  wooded  slopes,  where  the  branches 
creaked  under  the  weight  of  their  snowy  burdens.  A 
profound  silence  encircled  the  village,  which  seemed 
buried  under  the  successive  layers  of  snowdrifts.  Only 
here  and  there,  occasionally,  did  a  thin  line  of  blue 
smoke,  rising  from  one  of  the  white  roofs,  give  evidence 
of  any  latent  life  among  the  inhabitants.  The  Chateau 
de  Buxieres  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  carpet  of  snow 
on  which  the  sabots  of  the  villagers  had  outlined  a 
narrow  path,  leading  from  the  outer  steps  to  the  iron 
gate.  Inside,  fires  blazed  on  all  the  hearths,  which, 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

however,  did  not  modify  the  frigid  atmosphere  of  the 
rudely-built  upper  rooms. 

Julien  de  Buxieres  was  freezing,  both  physically  and 
morally,  in  his  abode.  His  generous  conduct  toward 
Claudet  had,  ia  truth,  gained  him  the  affection  of  the 
grand  chasserot,  made  Manette  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  and 
caused  a  revulsion  of  feeling  in  his  favor  throughout  the 
village;  but,  although  his  material  surroundings  had 
become  more  congenial,  he  still  felt  around  him  the 
chill  of  intellectual  solitude.  The  days  also  seemed 
longer  since  Claudet  had  taken  upon  himself  the  man- 
agement of  all  details.  Julien  found  that  re-reading  his 
favorite  books  was  not  sufficient  occupation  for  the 
weary  hours  that  dragged  slowly  along  between  the  ris- 
ing and  the  setting  of  the  sun.  The  gossipings  of 
Manette,  the  hunting  stories  of  Claudet  had  no  interest 
for  young  de  Buxieres,  and  the  acquaintances  he  en- 
deavored to  make  outside  left  only  a  depressing  feeling 
of  ennui  and  disenchantment. 

His  first  visit  had  been  made  to  the  cure  of  Vivey, 
where  he  hoped  to  meet  with  some  intellectual  resources, 
and  a  tone  of  conversation  more  in  harmony  with  his 
tastes.  In  this  expectation,  also,  he  had  been  disap- 
pointed. The  Abbe  Pernot  was  an  amiable  quin- 
quagenarian, and  a  bon  vivant,  whose  mind  inclined 
more  naturally  toward  the  duties  of  daily  life  than 
toward  meditation  or  contemplative  studies.  The  ideal 
did  not  worry  him  in  the  least;  and  when  he  had  said 
his  mass,  read  his  breviary,  confessed  the  devout  sinners 
and  visited  the  sick,  he  gave  the  rest  of  his  time  to  pro- 
fane but  respectable  amusements.  He  was  of  robust 
6  [81] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

temperament,  with  a  tendency  to  corpulency,  which  h 
fought  against  by  taking  considerable  exercise;  his  fac 
was  round  and  good-natured,  his  calm  gray  eyes  re 
fleeted  the  tranquillity  and  uprightness  of  his  soul,  an< 
his  genial  nature  was  shown  in  his  full  smiling  mouth 
his  thick,  wavy,  gray  hair,  and  his  quick  and  cordia 
gestures. 

When  Julien  was  ushered  into  the  presbytery,  h 
found  the  cure  installed  in  a  small  room,  which  he  use< 
for  working  in,  and  which  was  littered  up  with  article 
bearing  a  very  distant  connection  to  his  pious  calling 
nets  for  catching  larks,  hoops  and  other  nets  for  fishing 
stuffed  birds,  and  a  collection  of  coleopterse.  At  th 
other  end  of  the  room  stood  a  dusty  bookcase,  contain 
ing  about  a  hundred  volumes,  which  seemed  to  hav 
been  seldom  consulted.  The  Abbe,  sitting  on  a  lo\ 
chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  his  cossack  raised  to  hi 
knees,  was  busy  melting  glue  in  an  old  earthen  pot. 

"Aha,  good-day!  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  he  ii 
his  rich,  jovial  voice,  "you  have  caught  me  in  an  oc 
cupation  not  very  canonical;  but  what  of  it  ?  As  Sain 
James  says:  'The  bow  can  not  be  always  bent.'  I  arj 
preparing  some  lime- twigs,  which  I  shall  place  in  th< 
Bois  des  Ronces  as  soon  as  the  snow  is  melted.  I  an 
not  only  a  fisher  of  souls,  but  I  endeavor  also  to  catcl 
birds  in  my  net,  not  so  much  for  the  purpose  of  varying 
my  diet,  as  of  enriching  my  collection!" 

"You  have  a  great  deal  of  spare  time  on  your  hands 
then?"  inquired  Julien,  with  some  surprise. 

"Well,  yes — yes — quite  a  good  deal.  The  parish  ii 
not  very  extensive,  as  you  have  doubtless  noticed;  mj 

[82] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

parishioners  are  in  the  best  possible  health,  thank  God ! 
and  they  live  to  be  very  old.  I  have  barely  two  or  three 
marriages  in  a  year,  and  as  many  burials,  so  that,  you 
see,  one  must  fill  up  one's  time  somehow  to  escape  the 
sin  of  idleness.  Every  man  must  have  a  hobby.  Mine 
is  ornithology;  and  yours,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres?" 

Julien  was  tempted  to  reply:  "Mine,  for  the  mo- 
ment, is  ennui"  He  was  just  in  the  mood  to  unburden 
himself  to  the  cure  as  to  the  mental  thirst  that  was  dry- 
ing up  his  faculties,  but  a  certain  instinct  warned  him 
that  the  Abbe  was  not  a  man  to  comprehend  the  subtle 
complexities  of  his  psychological  condition,  so  he  con- 
tented himself  with  replying,  briefly: 

"I  read  a  great  deal.  I  have,  over  there  in  the  ch£- 
teau,  a  pretty  fair  collection  of  historical  and  religious 
works,  and  they  are  at  your  service,  Monsieur  le  Cure ! " 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  replied  the  Abbe  Pernot,  mak- 
ing a  slight  grimace;  "I  am  not  much  of  a  reader,  and 
my  little  stock  is  sufficient  for  my  needs.  You  remember 
what  is  said  in  the  Imitation:  'Si  scires  totam  Bibliam 
exterius  et  omnium  philosophorum  dicta,  quid  totum 
prodesset  sine  caritate  Dei  et  gratia?'  Besides,  it  gives 
me  a  headache  to  read  too  steadily.  I  require  exercise 
in  the  open  air.  Do  you  hunt  or  fish,  Monsieur  de 
Buxieres?" 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other." 

"So  much  the  worse  for  you.  You  will  find  the  time 
hang  very  heavily  on  your  hands  in  this  country,  where 
there  are  so  few  sources  of  amusement.  But  never 
fear!  You  can  not  be  always  reading,  and  when  the 
fine  weather  comes  you  will  yield  to  the  temptation;  all 

[83] 


THEURIET 

the  more  likely  because  you  have  Claudet  Sejournant 
with  you.  A  jolly  fellow  he  is;  there  is  not  one  like  him 
for  killing  a  snipe  or  sticking  a  trout!  Our  trout  here 
on  the  Aubette,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  are  excellent — 
of  the  salmon  kind,  and  very  meaty." 

Then  came  an  interval  of  silence.  The  Abbe  began 
to  suspect  that  this  conversation  was  not  one  of  pro- 
found interest  to  his  visitor,  and  he  resumed : 

"Speaking  of  Claudet,  Monsieur,  allow  me  to  offer 
you  my  congratulations.  You  have  acted  in  a  most 
Christianlike  and  equitable  manner,  in  making  amends 
for  the  inconceivable  negligence  of  the  deceased  Claude 
de  Buxieres.  Then,  on  the  other  hand,  Claudet  de- 
serves what  you  have  done  for  him.  He  is  a  good  fellow, 
a  little  too  quick-tempered  and  violent  perhaps,  but  he 
has  a  heart  of  gold.  Ah !  it  would  have  been  no  use  for 
the  deceased  to  deny  it — the  blood  of  de  Buxieres  runs 
in  his  veins!" 

"If  public  rumor  is  to  be  believed,"  said  Julien  tim- 
idly, rising  to  go,  "my  deceased  cousin  Claude  was  very 
much  addicted  to  profane  pleasures." 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed!"  sighed  the  Abbe,  "he  was  a  devfl 
incarnate — but  what  a  magnificent  man!  What  a  won- 
derful huntsman!  Notwithstanding  his  backslidings, 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  good  in  him,  and  I  am  fain  to 
believe  that  God  has  taken  him  under  His  protecting 
mercy." 

Julien  took  his  leave,  and  returned  to  the  chateau, 
very  much  discouraged.  "This  priest,"  thought  he  to 
himself,  "is  a  man  of  expediency.  He  allows  himself 
certain  indulgences  which  are  to  be  regretted,  and  his 

[84] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

mind  is  becoming  clogged  by  continual  association  with 
carnal-minded  men.  His  thoughts  are  too  much  given 
to  earthly  things,  and  I  have  no  more  faith  in  him  than 
in  the  rest  of  them." 

So  he  shut  himself  up  again  in  his  solitude,  with  one 
more  illusion  destroyed.  He  asked  himself,  and  his 
heart  became  heavy  at  the  thought,  whether,  in  course 
of  time,  he  also  would  undergo  this  stultification,  this 
moral  depression,  which  ends  by  lowering  us  to  the 
level  of  the  low-minded  people  among  whom  we  live. 

Among  all  the  persons  he  had  met  since  his  arrival  at 
Vivey,  only  one  had  impressed  him  as  being  sympathetic 
and  attractive:  Reine  Vincart — and  even  her  energy 
was  directed  toward  matters  that  Julien  looked  upon  as 
secondary.  And  besides,  Reine  was  a  woman,  and  he 
was  afraid  of  women.  He  believed  with  Ecclesiastes 
the  preacher,  that  "they  are  more  bitter  than  death  .  .  . 
and  whoso  pleaseth  God  shall  escape  from  them."  He 
had  therefore  no  other  refuge  but  in  his  books  or  his 
own  sullen  reflections,  and,  consequently,  his  old  enemy, 
hypochondria,  again  made  him  its  prey. 

Toward  the  beginning  of  January,  the  snow  in  the 

valley  had  somewhat  melted,  and  a  light  frost  made 

access  to  the  woods  possible.    As  the  hunting  season 

seldom  extended  beyond  the  first  days  of  February,  the 

huntsmen  were  all   eager  to  take  advantage  of  the  few 

|  remaining  weeks  to  enjoy  their  favorite  pastime.    Every 

I  day  the  forest  resounded  with  the  shouts  of  beaters-up 

I  and  the  barking  of  the  hounds.    From  Auberive,  Pras- 

1  lay  and  Grancey,  rendezvous  were  made  in  the  woods 

of    Charbonniere    or    Maigrefontaine;     nothing    was 

[85] 


ANDRfe  THEURIET 

thought  of  but  the  exploits  of  certain  marksmen,  the! 
number  of  pieces  bagged,  and  the  joyous  outdoor  break-! 
fasts  which  preceded  each  occasion.  One  evening,  as| 
Julien,  more  moody  than  usual,  stood  yawning  wearily] 
and  leaning  on  the  corner  of  the  stove,  Claudet  noticed^ 
him,  and  was  touched  with  pity  for  this  young  fellow,; 
who  had  so  little  idea  how  to  employ  his  time,  his  youth,| 
or  his  money.  He  felt  impelled,  as  a  conscientious  duty,) 
to  draw  him  out  of  his  unwholesome  state  of  mind,  andj 
initiate  him  into  the  pleasures  of  country  life. 

"You  do  not  enjoy  yourself  with  us,  Monsieur  Ju- 
lien," said  he,  kindly;  "I  can't  bear  to  see  you  so  down- 
hearted. You  are  ruining  yourself  with  poring  all  dayj 
long  over  your  books,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  they  do  not! 
take  the  frowns  out  of  your  face.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
you  must  change  your  way  of  living,  or  you  will  be  ill.j 
Come,  now,  if  you  will  trust  in  me,  I  will  undertake  toj 
cure  your  ennui  before  a  week  is  over." 

"And  what  is  your  remedy,  Claudet?"  demanded^ 
Julien,  with  a  forced  smile. 

"A  very  simple  one:  just  let  your  books  go,  since! 
they  do  not  succeed  in  interesting  you,  and  live  the  life 
that  every  one  else  leads.  The  de  Buxieres,  your  ann 
cestors,  followed  the  same  plan,  and  had  no  fault  to  find 
with  it.  You  are  in  a  wolf  country— well,  you  musti 
howl  with  the  wolves!" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  replied  Julien,  shaking  his  head, 
"one  can  not  remake  one's  self.  The  wolves  them- 
selves would  discover  that  I  howled  out  of  tune,  and! 
would  send  me  back  to  my  books." 

"Nonsense!  try,  at  any  rate.  You  can  not  imagine 
[86] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


what  pleasure  there  is  in  coursing  through  the  woods, 
and  suddenly,  at  a  sharp  turn,  catching  sight  of  a  deer 

Jin  the  distance,  then  galloping  to  the  spot  where  he 
must  pass,  and  holding  him  with  the  end  of  your  gun! 

!  You  have  no  idea  what  an  appetite  one  gets  with  such 

I  exercise,  nor  how  jolly  it  is  to  breakfast  afterward,  all 

!  together,  seated  round  some  favorite  old  beech-tree. 

|  Enjoy  your  youth  while  you  have  it.     Time  enough  to 

i  stay  in  your  chimney-corner  and  spit  in  the  ashes  when 
rheumatism  has  got  hold  of  you.    Perhaps  you  will  say 
pou  never  have  followed  the  hounds,  and  do  not  know 
low  to  handle  a  gun?" 
"That  is  the  exact  truth." 

"Possibly,  but  appetite  comes  with  eating,  and  when 
>nce  you  have  tasted  of  the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  you 
ivill  want  to  imitate  your  companions.  Now,  see  here: 

j  ve  have  organized  a  party  at  Charbonniere  to-morrow, 
or  the  gentlemen  of  Auberive ;  there  will  be  some  peo- 

i  >le  you  know — Destourbet,  Justice  of  the  Peace,  the 

lerk  Seurrot,  Maitre  Arbillot  and  the  tax-collector, 

i  toucheseiche.     Hutinet  went  over  the  ground  yester- 

jlay,  and  has  appointed  the  meeting  for  ten  o'clock  at 

he  Belle-Etoile.     Come  with  us;    there  will  be  good 

<  ating  and  merriment,  and  also  some  fine  shooting,  I 

, pledge  you  my  word!" 

Julien  refused  at  first,   but  Claudet  insisted,   and 

,lhowed  him  the  necessity  of  getting  more  intimately 

cquainted  with  the  notables  of  Auberive — people  with 

7hom  he  would  be  continually  coming  in  contact  as 

Ispresenting  the  administration  of  justice  and  various 

Iffairs  in  the  canton.    He  urged  so  well  that  young  de 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

Buxieres  ended  by  giving  his  consent.  Manette  re- 
ceived immediate  instructions  to  prepare  eatables  for 
Hutinet,  the  keeper,  to  take  at  early  dawn  to  the  Belle- 
Etoile,  and  it  was  decided  that  the  company  should 
start  at  precisely  eight  o'clock. 

The  next  morning,  at  the  hour  indicated,  the  grand 
chasserot  was  already  in  the  courtyard  with  his  two 
hounds,  Charbonneau  and  Montagnard,  who  were; 
leaping  and  barking  sonorously  around  him.  Julien, 
reminded  of  his  promise  by  the  unusual  early  uproar, 
dressed  himself  with  a  bad  grace,  and  went  down  td 
join  Claudet,  who  was  bristling  with  impatience.  They 
started.  There  had  been  a  sharp  frost  during  the  night: 
some  hail  had  fallen,  and  the  roads  were  thinly  coatee 
with  a  white  dust,  called  by  the  country  people,  in  theii 
picturesque  language,  "a  sugar-frost"  of  snow.  A 
thick  fog  hung  over  the  forest,  so  that  they  had  to  guesf 
their  way;  but  Claudet  knew  every  turn  and  every  sidei 
path,  and  thus  he  and  his  companion  arrived  by  the 
most  direct  line  at  the  rendezvous.  They  soon  begad 
to  hear  the  barking  of  the  dogs,  to  which  Montagnardj 
and  Charbonneau  replied  with  emulative  alacrity,  andj 
finally,  through  the  mist,  they  distinguished  the  groujj 
of  huntsmen  from  Auberive. 

The  Belle-Etoile  was  a  circular  spot,  surrounded  blj 
ancient  ash-trees,  and  formed  the  central  point  for  sil 
diverging  alleys  which  stretched  out  indefinitely  intl 
the  forest.  The  monks  of  Auberive,  at  the  epoch  wheij  I 
they  were  the  lords  and  owners  of  the  land,  had  madl 
this  place  a  rendezvous  for  huntsmen,  and  had  provider  j 
a  table  and  some  stone  benches,  which,  thirty  years  agcj  I 

[88] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

were  still  in  existence.  The  enclosure,  which  had  been 
chosen  for  the  breakfast  on  the  present  occasion,  was 
irradiated  by  a  huge  log-fire;  a  very  respectable  display 
of  bottles,  bread,  and  various  eatables  covered  the  stone 
table,  and  the  dogs,  attached  by  couples  to  posts,  pulled 
at  their  leashes  and  barked  in  chorus,  while  their  mas- 
ters, grouped  around  the  fire,  warmed  their  benumbed 
fingers  over  the  flames,  and  tapped  their  heels  while 
waiting  for  the  last-comers. 

At  sight  of  Julien  and  Claudet,  there  was  a  joyous 
hurrah  of  welcome.  Justice  Destourbet  exchanged  a 
ceremonious  hand-shake  with  the  new  proprietor  of  the 
chateau.  The  scant  costume  and  tight  gaiters  of  the 
huntsman's  attire,  displayed  more  than  ever  the  height 
and  slimness  of  the  country  magistrate.  By  his  side,  the 
registrar  Seurrot,  his  legs  encased  in  blue  linen  spat- 
terdashes, his  back  bent,  his  hands  crossed  comfort- 
ably over  his  "corporation,"  sat  roasting  himself  at  the 
flame,  while  grumbling  when  the  wind  blew  the  smoke 
in  his  eyes.  Arbillot,  the  notary,  as  agile  and  restless  as 
a  lizard,  kept  going  from  one  to  the  other  with  an  air  of 
mysterious  importance.  He  came  up  to  Claudet,  drew 
him  aside,  and  showed  him  a  little  figure  in  a  case. 

"Look  here!"  whispered  he,  "we  shall  have  some 
fun;  as  I  passed  by  the  Abbe*  Pernot's  this  morning,  I 
stole  one  of  his  stuffed  squirrels." 

He  stooped  down,  and  with  an  air  of  great  mystery 
poured  into  his  ear  the  rest  of  the  communication,  at 
the  close  of  which  his  small  black  eyes  twinkled  ma- 
liciously, and  he  passed  the  end  of  his  tongue  over  his 
frozen  moustache. 


ANDRfe  THEURIET 

"Come  with  me,"  continued  he;  "it  will  be  a  good 
joke  on  the  collector." 

He  drew  Claudet  and  Hutinet  toward  one  of  the 
trenches,  where  the  fog  hid  them  from  sight. 

During  this  colloquy,  Boucheseiche  the  collector, 
against  whom  they  were  thus  plotting,  had  seized  upon 
Julien  de  Buxieres,  and  was  putting  him  through  a 
course  of  hunting  lore.  Justin  Boucheseiche  was  a  man 
of  remarkable  ugliness;  big,  bony,  freckled,  with  red 
hair,  hairy  hands,  and  a  loud,  rough  voice. 

He  wore  a  perfectly  new  hunting  costume,  cap  and 
gaiters  of  leather,  a  havana-colored  waistcoat,  and  had 
a  complete  assortment  of  pockets  of  all  sizes  for  the  car- 
tridges. He  pretended  to  be  a  great  authority  on  all 
matters  relating  to  the  chase,  although  he  was,  in  fact, 
the  worst  shot  in  the  whole  canton;  and  when  he  had 
the  good  luck  to  meet  with  a  newcomer,  he  launched 
forth  on  the  recital  of  his  imaginary  prowess,  without 
any  pity  for  the  hearer.  So  that,  having  once  got  hold 
of  Julien,  he  kept  by  his  side  when  they  sat  down  to 
breakfast. 

j  All  these  country  huntsmen  were  blessed  with  healthy 
appetites.  They  ate  heartily,  and  drank  in  the  same 
fashion,  especially  the  collector  Boucheseiche,  who 
justified  his  name  by  pouring  out  numerous  bumpers 
of  white  wine.  During  the  first  'quarter  of  an  hour 
nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  noise  of  jaws  masti- 
cating, glasses  and  forks  clinking;  but  when  the  savory 
pastries,  the  cold  game  and  the  hams  had  disappeared, 
and  had  been  replaced  by  goblets  of  hot  Burgundy  and 
boiling  coffee,  then  tongues  became  loosened.  Julien,  to 

[90] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

his  infinite  disgust,  was  forced  again  to  be  present  at  a 
conversation  similar  to  the  one  at  the  time  of  the  raising 
of  the  seals,  the  coarseness  of  which  had  so  astonished 
and  shocked  him.  After  the  anecdotes  of  the  chase 
were  exhausted,  the  guests  began  to  relate  their  experi- 
ences among  the  fair  sex,  losing  nothing  of  the  point 
from  the  effect  of  the  numerous  empty  bottles  around. 
All  the  scandalous  cases  in  the  courts  of  justice,  all  the 
coarse  jokes  and  adventures  of  the  district,  were  related 
over  again.  Each  tried  to  surpass  his  neighbor.  To 
hear  these  men  of  position  boast  of  their  gallantries  with 
all  classes,  one  would  have  thought  that  the  entire  can- 
ton underwent  periodical  changes  and  became  one  vast 
Saturnalia,  where  rustic  satyrs  courted  their  favorite 
nymphs.  But  nothing  came  of  it,  after  all;  once  the 
feast  was  digested,  and  they  had  returned  to  the  conju- 
gal abode,  all  these  terrible  gay  Lotharios  became  once 
more  chaste  and  worthy  fathers  of  families.  Neverthe- 
less, Julien,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  such  bibulous 
festivals  and  such  unbridled  license  of  language,  took  it 
all  literally,  and  reproached  himself  more  than  ever  with 
having  yielded  to  Claudet's  entreaties. 

At  last  the  table  was  deserted,  and  the  marking  of  the 
limits  of  the  hunt  began. 

As  they  were  following  the  course  of  the  trenches,  the 
notary  stopped  suddenly  at  the  foot  of  an  ash- tree,  and 
took  the  arm  of  the  collector,  who  was  gently  humming 
out  of  tune. 

"Hush!  Collector,"  he  whispered,  "do  you  see  that 
fellow  up  there,  on  the  fork  of  the  tree  ?  He  seems  to  be 
jeering  at  us." 

[91] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

At  the  same  time  he  pointed  out  a  squirrel,  sitting 
perched  upon  a  branch,  about  halfway  up  the  tree. 
The  animal's  tail  stood  up  behind  like  a  plume,  his  ears 
were  upright,  and  he  had  his  front  paws  in  his  mouth, 
as  if  cracking  a  nut. 

"A  squirrel!"  cried  the  impetuous  Boucheseiche, 
immediately  falling  into  the  snare;  "let  no  one  touch 
him,  gentlemen — I  will  settle  his  account  for  him." 

The  rest  of  the  hunters  had  drawn  back  in  a  circle, 
and  were  exchanging  sly  glances.  The  collector  loaded 
his  gun,  shouldered  it,  covered  the  squirrel,  and  then 
let  go. 

"Hit!"  exclaimed  he,  triumphantly,  as  soon  as  the 
smoke  had  dispersed. 

In  fact,  the  animal  had  slid  down  the  branch,  head 
first,  but,  somehow,  he  did  not  fall  to  the  ground. 

"He  has  caught  hold  of  something,"  said  the  notary, 
facetiously. 

"Ah!  you  will  hold  on,  you  rascal,  will  you?" 
shouted  Boucheseiche,  beside  himself  with  excitement, 
and  the  next  moment  he  sent  a  second  shot,ivhich  sent 
the  hair  flying  in  all  directions. 

The  creature  remained  in  the  same  position.  Then 
there  was  a  general  roar. 

"He  is  quite  obstinate!"  remarked  the  clerk,  slyly. 

Boucheseiche,  astonished,  looked  attentively  at  the 
tree,  then  at  the  laughing  crowd,  and  could  not  under- 
stand the  situation. 

"If  I  were  in  your  place,  Collector,"  said  Claudet,  in 
an  insinuating  manner,  "I  should  climb  up  there,  to 


[9*1 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


But  Justin  Boucheseiche  was  not  a  climber.  He 
called  a  youngster,  who  followed  the  hunt  as  beater-up. 

"I  will  give  you  ten  sous,"  said  he;  "to  mount  that 
tree  and  bring  me  my  squirrel!" 

The  young  imp  did  not  need  to  be  told  twice.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  he  threw  his  arms  around  the  tree, 
and  reached  the  fork.  When  there,  he  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation. 

"Well?"  cried  the  collector,  impatiently,  "throw 
him  down!" 

"I  can't,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  boy,  "the  squirrel  is 
fastened  by  a  wire."  Then  the  laughter  burst  forth 
more  boisterously  than  before. 

"A  wire,  you  young  rascal!  Are  you  making  fun  of 
me?"  shouted  Boucheseiche,  "come  down  this  mo- 
ment!" 

"Here  he  is,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  lad,  throwing 
himself  down  with  the  squirrel  which  he  tossed  at  the 
collector's  feet. 

When  Boucheseiche  verified  the  fact  that  the  squirrel 
was  a  stuffed  specimen,  he  gave  a  resounding  oath. 

"In  the  name  of — !  who  is  the  miscreant  that  has 
perpetrated  this  joke?" 

No  one  could  reply  for  laughing.  Then  ironical 
cheers  burst  forth  from  all  sides. 

"Brave  Boucheseiche!  That's  a  kind  of  game  one 
doesn't  often  get  hold  of!" 

"We  never  shall  see  any  more  of  that  kind!" 

"Let  us  carry  Boucheseiche  in  triumph!" 

And  so  they  went  on,  marching  around  the  tree. 
Arbillot  seized  a  slip  of  ivy  and  crowned  Boucheseiche, 

[93] 


ANDRfe  THEURIET 

while  all  the  others  clapped  their  hands  and  capered  in 
front  of  the  collector,  who,  at  last,  being  a  good  fellow 
at  heart,  joined  in  the  laugh  at  his  own  expense. 

Julien  de  Buxieres  alone  could  not  share  the  general 
hilarity.  The  uproar  caused  by  this  simple  joke  did  not 
even  chase  the  frown  from  his  brow.  He  was  provoked 
at  not  being  able  to  bring  himself  within  the  diapason 
of  this  somewhat  vulgar  gayety:  he  was  aware  that  his 
melancholy  countenance,  his  black  clothes,  his  want  of 
sympathy  jarred  unpleasantly  on  the  other  jovial  guests. 
He  did  not  intend  any  longer  to  play  the  part  of  a  kill- 
joy. Without  saying  anything  to  Claudet,  therefore,  he 
waited  until  the  huntsmen  had  scattered  in  the  brush- 
wood, and  then,  diving  into  a  trench,  in  an  opposite 
direction,  he  gave  them  all  the  slip,  and  turned  in  the 
direction  of  Planche-au-Vacher. 

As  he  walked  slowly,  treading  under  foot  the  dry 
frosty  leaves,  he  reflected  how  the  monotonous  crackling 
of  this  foliage,  once  so  full  of  life,  now  withered  and  ren- 
dered brittle  by  the  frost,  seemed  to  represent  his  own 
deterioration  of  feeling.  It  was  a  sad  and  suitable  ac- 
companiment of  his  own  gloomy  thoughts. 

He  was  deeply  mortified  at  the  sorry  figure  he  had 
presented  at  the  breakfast- table.  He  acknowledged 
sorrowfully  to  himself  that,  at  twenty-eight  years  of  age, 
he  was  less  young  and  less  really  alive  than  all  these 
country  squires,  although  all,  except  Claudet,  had 
passed  their  fortieth  year.  Having  missed  his  season 
of  childhood,  was  he  also  doomed  to  have  no  youth? 
Others  found  delight  in  the  most  ordinary  amusements, 
why,  to  him,  did  life  seem  so  insipid  and  colorless? 

[94] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


Why  was  he  so  unfortunately  constituted  that  all  human 
joys  lost  their  sweetness  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  heart 
to  them  ?  Nothing  made  any  powerful  impression  on 
him;  everything  that  happened  seemed  to  be  a  per- 
petual reiteration,  a  song  sung  for  the  hundredth  time, 
a  story  a  hundred  times  related. 

He  was  like  a  new  vase,  cracked  before  it  had  served 
its  use,  and  he  felt  thoroughly  ashamed  of  the  weakness 
and  infirmity  of  his  inner  self.  Thus  pondering,  he 
traversed  much  ground,  hardly  knowing  where  he  was 
going.  The  fog,  which  now  filled  the  air  and  which 
almost  hid  the  trenches  with  its  thin  bluish  veil,  made 
it  impossible  to  discover  his  bearings.  At  last  he  reached 
the  border  of  some  pasture-land,  which  he  crossed,  and 
then  he  perceived,  not  many  steps  away,  some  buildings 
with  tiled  roofs,  which  had  something  familiar  to  him  in 
their  aspect.  After  he  had  gone  a  few  feet  farther  he 
recognized  the  court  and  facade  of  La  Thuiliere;  and, 
as  he  looked  over  the  outer  wall,  a  sight  altogether  novel 
and  unexpected  presented  itself. 

Standing  in  the  centre  of  the  courtyard,  her  outline 
showing  in  dark  relief  against  the  light  "sugar-frost- 
ing," stood  Reine  Vincart,  her  back  turned  to  Julien. 
She  held  up  a  corner  of  her  apron  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  took  out  handfuls  of  grain,  which  she 
scattered  among  the  birds  fluttering  around  her.  At 
each  moment  the  little  band  was  augmented  by  a  new 
arrival.  All  these  little  creatures  were  of  species  which 
do  not  emigrate,  but  pass  the  winter  in  the  shelter  of  the 
wooded  dells.  There  were  blackbirds  with  yellow  bills, 
who  advanced  boldly  over  the  snow  up  to  the  very  feet 

[95] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

of  the  distributing  fairy;  robin  redbreasts,  nearly  as 
tame,  hopping  gayly  over  the  stones,  bobbing  their 
heads  and  puffing  out  their  red  breasts;  and  tomtits, 
prudently  watching  awhile  from  the  tops  of  neighbor- 
ing trees,  then  suddenly  taking  flight,  and  with  quick, 
sharp  cries,  seizing  the  grain  on  the  wing.  It  was 
charming  to  see  all  these  little  hungry  creatures  career 
around  Reine's  head,  with  a  joyous  fluttering  of  wings. 
When  the  supply  was  exhausted,  the  young  girl  shook 
her  apron,  turned  around,  and  recognized  Julien. 

"Were  you  there,  Monsieur  de  Buxi&res?"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  come  inside  the  courtyard  1  Don't  be  afraid ; 
they  have  finished  their  meal.  Those  are  my  boarders/1 
she  added,  pointing  to  the  birds,  which,  one  by  one, 
were  taking  their  flight  across  the  fields.  "Ever  since 
the  first  fall  of  snow,  I  have  been  distributing  grain  to 
them  once  a  day.  I  think  they  must  tell  one  another 
under  the  trees  there,  for  every  day  their  number  in- 
creases. But  I  don't  complain  of  that.  Just  think, 
these  are  not  birds  of  passage ;  they  do  not  leave  us  at 
the  first  cold  blast,  to  find  a  warmer  climate^;  the  least 
we  can  do  is  to  recompense  them  by  feeding  them  when 
the  weather  is  too  severe!  Several  know  me  already, 
and  are  very  tame.  There  is  a  blackbird  in  particular, 
and  a  blue  tomtit,  that  are  both  extremely  saucy!" 

These  remarks  were  of  a  nature  to  please  Julien. 
They  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  young  mystic; 
they  recalled  to  his  mind  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  preach- 
ing to  the  fish  and  conversing  with  the  birds,  and  he 
felt  an  increase  of  sympathy  for  this  singular  young 
girl.  He  would  have  liked  to  find  a  pretext  for  remain- 

[96] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


ing  longer  with  her,  but  his  natural  timidity  in  the  pres- 
ence of  women  paralyzed  his  tongue,  and,  already,  fear- 
ing he  should  be  thought  intruding,  he  had  raised  his 
hat  to  take  leave,  when  Reine  addressed  him: 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  come  into  the  house,  because  I 
am  obliged  to  go  to  the  sale  of  the  Ronces  woods,  in 
order  to  speak  to  the  men  who  are  cultivating  the  little 
lot  that  we  have  bought.  I  wager,  Monsieur  de  Bux- 
ieres,  that  you  are  not  yet  acquainted  with  our  woods?" 

"That  is  true,"  he  replied,  smiling. 

"Very  well,  if  you  will  accompany  me,  I  will  show 
you  the  canton  they  are  about  to  develop.  It  will  not 
be  time  lost,  for  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  the  people 
who  are  working  for  you  to  know  that  you  are  inter- 
ested in  their  labors." 

Julien  replied  that  he  should  be  happy  to  be  under 
her  guidance. 

"In  that  case,"  said  Reine,  "wait  for  me  here.  I 
shall  be  back  in  a  moment." 

She  reappeared  a  few  minutes  later,  wearing  a  white 
hood  with  a  cape,  and  a  knitted  woolen  shawl  over  her 
shoulders. 

"This  way!"  said  she,  showing  a  path  that  led  across 
the  pasture-lands. 

They  walked  along  silently  at  first.  The  sky  was 
clear,  the  wind  had  freshened.  Suddenly,  as  if  by  en- 
chantment, the  fog,  which  had  hung  over  the  forest, 
became  converted  into  needles  of  ice.  Each  tree  was 
powdered  over  with  frozen  snow,  and  on  the  hillsides 
overshadowing  the  valley  the  massive  tufts  of  forest 
were  veiled  in  a  bluish- white  vapor. 
7  [97] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

Never  had  Julien  de  Buxieres  been  so  long  in  tete-a- 
tete  with  a  young  woman.  The  extreme  solitude,  the 
surrounding  silence,  rendered  this  dual  promenade 
more  intimate  and  also  more  embarrassing  to  a  young 
man  who  was  alarmed  at  the  very  thought  of  a  female 
countenance.  His  ecclesiastical  education  had  imbued 
Julien  with  very  rigorous  ideas  as  to  the  careful  and 
reserved  behavior  which  should  be  maintained  between 
the  sexes,  and  his  intercourse  with  the  world  had  been 
too  infrequent  for  the  idea  to  have  been  modified  in  any 
appreciable  degree.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  this 
walk  across  the  fields  in  the  company  of  Reine  should 
assume  an  exaggerated  importance  in  his  eyes.  He  felt 
himself  troubled  and  yet  happy  in  the  chance  afforded 
him  to  become  more  closely  acquainted  with  this  young 
girl,  toward  whom  a  secret  sympathy  drew  him  more 
and  more.  But  he  did  not  know  how  to  begin  conver- 
sation, and  the  more  he  cudgelled  his  brains  to  find  a 
way  of  opening  the  attack,  the  more  he  found  himself 
at  sea.  Once  more  Reine  came  to  his  assistance. 

"Well,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  she,  "do  matters 
go  more  to  your  liking  now  ?  You  have  acted  most  gen- 
erously toward  Claudet,  and  he  ought  to  be  pleased." 

"Has  he  spoken  to  you,  then?" 

"No;  not  himself,  but  good  news,  like  bad,  flies  fast, 
and  all  the  villagers  are  singing  your  praises." 

"I  only  did  a  very  simple  and  just  thing,"  replied 
Julien. 

"Precisely,  but  those  are  the  very  things  that  are  the 
hardest  to  do.  And  according  as  they  are  done  well  or 
ill,  so  is  the  person  that  does  them  judged  by  others." 

[98] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"You  have  thought  favorably  of  me  then,  Mademoi- 
selle Vincart,"  he  ventured,  with  a  timid  smile. 

uYes;  but  my  opinion  is  of  little  importance.  You 
must  be  pleased  with  yourself— that  is  more  essential. 
I  am  sure  that  it  must  be  pleasanter  now  for  you  to  live 
at  Vivey?" 

"Hm!— more  bearable,  certainly. " 

The  conversation  languished  again.  As  they  ap- 
proached the  confines  of  the  farm  they  heard  distant 
barking,  and  then  the  voices  of  human  beings.  Finally 
two  gunshots  broke  on  the  air. 

"Ha,  ha!"  exclaimed  Reine,  listening,  "the  Auberive 
Society  is  following  the  hounds,  and  Claudet  must  be 
one  of  the  party.  How  is  it  you  were  not  with  them  ?  " 

"  Claudet  took  me  there,  and  I  was  at  the  breakfast — 
but,  Mademoiselle,  I  confess  that  that  kind  of  amuse- 
ment is  not  very  tempting  to  me.  At  the  first  oppor- 
tunity I  made  my  escape,  and  left  the  party  to  them- 
selves." 

"Well,  now,  to  be  frank  with  you,  you  were  wrong. 
Those  gentlemen  will  feel  aggrieved,  for  they  are  very 
sensitive.  You  see,  when  one  has  to  live  with  people, 
one  must  yield  to  their  customs,  and  not  pooh-pooh 
their  amusements." 

"You  are  saying  exactly  what  Claudet  said  last 
night." 

"Claudet  was  right." 

"What  am  I  to  do?  The  chase  has  no  meaning  for 
me.  I  can  not  feel  any  interest  in  the  butchery  of  mis- 
erable animals  that  are  afterward  sent  back  to  their 
quarters." 

[99] 


ANDRti  THEURIET 

"I  can  understand  that  you  do  not  care  for  the  chase 
for  its  own  sake ;  but  the  ride  in  the  open  air,  in  the  open 
forest?  Our  forests  are  so  beautiful — look  there,  now! 
does  not  that  sight  appeal  to  you?" 

From  the  height  they  had  now  gained,  they  could  see 
all  over  the  valley,  illuminated  at  intervals  by  the  pale 
rays  of  the  winter  sun.  Wherever  its  light  touched  the 
brushwood,  the  frosty  leaves  quivered  like  diamonds, 
while  a  milky  cloud  enveloped  the  parts  left  in  shadow. 
Now  and  then,  a  slight  breeze  stirred  the  branches, 
causing  a  shower  of  sparkling  atoms  to  rise  in  the  air, 
like  miniature  rainbows.  The  entire  forest  seemed 
clothed  in  the  pure,  fairy-like  robes  of  a  virgin  bride. 

"Yes,  that  is  beautiful,"  admitted  Julien,  hesita- 
tingly; "  I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  any  thing  similar:  at 
any  rate,  it  is  you  who  have  caused  me  to  notice  it  for 
the  first  time.  But,"  continued  he,  "as  the  sun  rises 
higher,  all  this  phantasmagoria  will  melt  and  vanish. 
The  beauty  of  created  things  lasts  only  a  moment,  and 
serves  as  a  warning  for  us  not  to  set  our  hearts  on 
things  that  perish." 

Reine  gazed  at  him  with  astonishmert. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  exclaimed  she:  "that  is 
very  sad,  and  I  do  not  know  enough  to  give  an  opinion. 
All  I  know  is,  that  if  God  has  created  such  beautiful 
Ahings  it  is  in  order  that  we  may  enjoy  them.  And  that 
is  the  reason  why  I  worship  these  woods  with  all  my 
heart.  Ah!  if  you  could  only  see  them  in  the  month  of 
June,  when  the  foliage  is  at  its  fulness.  Flowers  every- 
where— yellow,  blue,  crimson!  Music  also  everywhere 
— the  song  of  birds,  the  murmuring  of  waters,  and  the 

[100] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

balmy  scents  in  the  air.  Then  there  are  the  lime-trees, 
the  wild  cherry,  and  the  hedges  red  with  strawberries — 
it  is  intoxicating.  And,  whatever  you  may  say,  Mon- 
sieur de  Buxieres,  I  assure  you  that  the  beauty  of  the 
forest  is  not  a  thing  to  be  despised.  Every  season  it  is 
renewed:  in  autumn,  when  the  wild  fruits  and  tinted 
leaves  contribute  their  wealth  of  color;  in  winter,  with 
its  vast  carpets  of  snow,  from  which  the  tall  ash  springs 
to  such  a  stately  height — look,  now!  up  there!" 

They  were  in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Before  them 
were  colonnades  of  slim,  graceful  trees,  rising  in  one 
unbroken  line  toward  the  skies,  their  slender  branches 
forming  a  dark  network  overhead,  and  their  lofty  pro- 
portions lessening  in  the  distance,  until  lost  in  the  sol- 
emn gloom  beyond.  A  religious  silence  prevailed, 
broken  only  by  the  occasional  chirp  of  the  wren,  or  the 
soft  pattering  of  some  smaller  four-footed  race. 

"How  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Reine,  with  animation; 
"one  might  imagine  one's  self  in  a  cathedral!  Oh! 
how  I  love  the  forest;  a  feeling  of  awe  and  devotion 
comes  over  me,  and  makes  me  want  to  kneel  down  and 
pray!" 

Julien  looked  at  her  with  an  uneasy  kind  of  admira- 
tion. She  was  walking  slowly  now,  grave  and  thought- 
ful, as  if  in  church.  Her  white  hood  had  fallen  on  her 
shoulders,  and  her  hair,  slightly  stirred  by  the  wind, 
floated  like  a  dark  aureole  around  her  pale  face.  Her 
luminous  eyes  gleamed  between  the  double  fringes  of 
her  eyelids,  and  her  mobile  nostrils  quivered  with  sup- 
pressed emotion.  As  she  passed  along,  the  brambles 
from  the  wayside,  intermixed  with  ivy  and  other  hardy 

[101] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

plants,  caught  on  the  hem  of  her  dress  and  formed  a 
verdant  train,  giving  her  the  appearance  of  the  high- 
priestess  of  some  mysterious  temple  of  Nature.  At  this 
moment,  she  identified  herself  so  perfectly  with  her 
nickname,  "queen  of  the  woods,"  that  Julien,  already 
powerfully  affected  by  her  peculiar  and  striking  style 
of  beauty,  began  to  experience  a  superstitious  dread  of 
her  influence.  His  Catholic  scruples,  or  the  remem- 
brance of  certain  pious  lectures  administered  in  his 
childhood,  rendered  him  distrustful,  and  he  reproached 
himself  for  the  interest  he  took  in  the  conversation  of 
this  seductive  creature.  He  recalled  the  legends  of 
temptations  to  which  the  Evil  One  used  to  subject  the 
anchorites  of  old,  by  causing  to  appear  before  them  the 
attractive  but  illusive  forms  of  the  heathen  deities.  He 
wondered  whether  he  were  not  becoming  the  sport  of 
the  same  baleful  influence;  if,  like  the  Lamias  and 
Dryads  of  antiquity,  this  queen  of  the  woods  were 
not  some  spirit  of  the  elements,  incarnated  in  human 
form  and  sent  to  him  for  the  purpose  of  dragging  his 
soul  down  to  perdition. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  he  followed  in  her  footsteps, 
cautiously,  and  at  a  distance,  when  she  suddenly  turned, 
as  if  waiting  for  him  to  rejoin  her.  He  then  perceived 
that  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  copse,  and  before 
them  lay  an  open  space,  on  which  the  cut  lumber  lay  in 
cords,  forming  dark  heaps  on  the  frosty  ground.  Here 
and  there  were  allotments  of  chosen  trees  and  poles, 
among  which  a  thin  spiral  of  smoke  indicated  the  en- 
campment of  the  cutters.  Reine  made  straight  for 
them,  and  immediately  presented  the  new  owner  of  the 

[102] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


chateau  to  the  workmen.  They  made  their  awkward 
obeisances,  scrutinizing  him  in  the  mistrustful  manner 
customary  with  the  peasants  of  mountainous  regions 
when  they  meet  strangers.  The  master  workman  then 
turned  to  Reine,  replying  to  her  remarks  in  a  respectful 
but  familiar  tone: 

"Make  yourself  easy,  mamselle,  we  shall  do  our  best 
and  rush  things  in  order  to  get  through  with  the  work. 
Besides,  if  you  will  come  this  way  with  me,  you  will  see 
that  there  is  no  idling;  we  are  just  now  going  to  fell  an 
oak,  and  before  a  quarter  of  an  hour  is  over  it  will  be 
lying  on  the  ground,  cut  off  as  neatly  as  if  with  a  razor." 

They  drew  near  the  spot  where  the  first  strokes  of  the 
axe  were  already  resounding.  The  giant  tree  did  not 
seem  affected  by  them,  but  remained  haughty  and  im- 
movable. Then  the  blows  redoubled  until  the  trunk 
began  to  tremble  from  the  base  to  the  summit,  like  a 
living  thing.  The  steel  had  made  the  bark,  the  sap- 
wood,  and  even  the  core  of  the  tree,  fly  in  shivers;  but 
the  oak  had  resumed  its  impassive  attitude,  and  bore 
stoically  the  assaults  of  the  workmen.  Looking  up- 
ward, as  it  reared  its  proud  and  stately  head,  one  would 
have  affirmed  that  it  never  could  fall.  Suddenly  the 
woodsmen  fell  back;  there  was  a  moment  of  solemn 
and  terrible  suspense ;  then  the  enormous  trunk  heaved 
and  plunged  down  among  the  brushwood  with  an  alarm- 
ing crash  of  breaking  branches.  A  sound  as  of  lamen- 
tation rumbled  through  the  icy  forest,  and  then  all  was 
still. 

The  men,  with  unconscious  emotion,  stood  contem- 
plating the  monarch  oak  lying  prostrate  on  the  ground. 

[103] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

Reine  had  turned  pale;  her  dark  eyes  glistened  with 
tears. 

"Let  us  go,"  murmured  she  to  Julien;  "this  death 
of  a  tree  affects  me  as  if  it  were  that  of  a  Christian." 

They  took  leave  of  the  woodsmen,  and  reentered  the 
forest.  Reine  kept  silence  and  her  companion  was  at 
a  loss  to  resume  the  conversation;  so  they  journeyed 
along  together  quietly  until  they  reached  a  border 
line,  whence  they  could  perceive  the  smoke  from  the 
roofs  of  Vivey. 

"You  have  only  to  go  straight  down  the  hill  to  reach 
your  home,"  said  she,  briefly;  uau  revoir,  Monsieur  de 
Buxieres." 

Thus  they  quitted  each  other,  and,  looking  back,  he 
saw  that  she  slackened  her  speed  and  went  dreamily 
on  in  the  direction  of  Planche-au-Vacher. 


[104] 


CHAPTER  V 

LOVE'S  INDISCRETION 

N  the  mountainous  region  of  Langres, 
spring  can  hardly  be  said  to  appear 
before  the  end  of  May.  Until  that 
time  the  cold  weather  holds  its  own; 
the  white  frosts,  and  the  sharp,  sleety 
April  showers,  as  well  as  the  sudden 
windstorms  due  to  the  malign  influ- 
ence of  the  ice-gods,  arrest  vegetation, 
and  only  a  few  of  the  more  hardy  plants  venture  to  put 
forth  their  trembling  shoots  until  later.  But,  as  June 
approaches  and  the  earth  becomes  warmed  through  by 
the  sun,  a  sudden  metamorphosis  is  effected.  Some- 
times a  single  night  is  sufficient  for  the  floral  spring  to 
burst  forth  in  all  its  plenitude.  The  hedges  are  alive 
with  lilies  and  woodruffs;  the  blue  columbines  shake 
their  foolscap-like  blossoms  along  the  green  side-paths; 
the  milky  spikes  of  the  Virgin  plant  rise  slender  and 
tall  among  the  bizarre  and  many-colored  orchids.  Mile 
after  mile,  the  forest  unwinds  its  fairy  show  of  changing 
scenes.  Sometimes  one  comes  upon  a  spot  of  perfect 
verdure;  at  other  times  one  wanders  in  almost  complete 
darkness  under  the  thick  interlacing  boughs  of  the  ash- 
trees,  through  which  occasional  gleams  of  light  fall  on 
the  dark  soil  or  on  the  spreading  ferns.  Now  the  wan- 

[105] 


ANDRti  THEURIET 

derer  emerges  upon  an  open  space  so  full  of  sunshine 
that  the  strawberries  are  already  ripening;  near  them 
are  stacked  the  tender  young  trees,  ready  for  spacing, 
and  the  billets  of  wood  piled  up  and  half  covered  with 
thistle  and  burdock  leaves;  and  a  little  farther  away, 
half  hidden  by  tall  weeds,  teeming  with  insects,  rises  the 
peaked  top  of  the  woodsman's  hut.  Here  one  walks  be- 
side deep,  grassy  trenches,  which  appear  to  continue 
without  end,  along  the  forest  level;  farther,  the  wild 
mint  and  the  centaurea  perfume  the  shady  nooks,  the 
oaks  and  lime-trees  arch  their  spreading  branches,  and 
the  honeysuckle  twines  itself  round  the  knotty  shoots  of 
the  hornbeam,  whence  the  thrush  gives  forth  her  joy- 
ous, sonorous  notes. 

Not  only  in  the  forest,  but  also  in  the  park  belonging 
to  the  chateau,  and  in  the  village  orchards,  spring  had 
donned  a  holiday  costume.  Through  the  open  windows, 
between  the  massive  bunches  of  lilacs,  hawthorn,  and 
laburnum  blossoms,  Julien  de  Buxieres  caught  glimpses 
of  rolling  meadows  and  softly  tinted  vistas.  The  gentle 
twittering  of  the  birds  and  the  mysterious  eall  of  the 
cuckoo,  mingled  with  the  perfume  of  flowers,  stole  into 
his  study,  and  produced  a  sense  of  enjoyment  as  novel 
to  him  as  it  was  delightful.  Having  until  the  present 
time  lived  a  sedentary  life  in  cities,  he  had  had  no  op- 
portunity of  experiencing  this  impression  of  nature  in 
her  awakening  and  luxuriant  aspect;  never  had  he  felt 
so  completely  under  the  seductive  influence  of  the  god- 
dess Mai'a  than  at  this  season  when  the  abundant  sap 
exudes  in  a  white  foam  from  the  trunk  of  the  willow; 
when  between  the  plant  world  and  ourselves  a  magnetic 

[106] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


current  seems  to  exist,  which  seeks  to  wed  their  frater- 
nizing emanations  with  our  own  personality.  He  was 
oppressed  by  the  vividness  of  the  verdure,  intoxicated 
with  the  odor  of  vegetation,  agitated  by  the  confused 
music  of  the  birds,  and  in  this  May  fever  of  excitement, 
his  thoughts  wandered  with  secret  delight  to  Reine  Vin- 
cart,  to  this  queen  of  the  woods,  who  was  the  personi- 
fication of  all  the  witchery  of  the  forest.  Since  their 
January  promenade  in  the  glades  of  Charbonniere,  he 
had  seen  her  at  a  distance,  sometimes  on  Sundays  in  the 
little  church  at  Vivey,  sometimes  like  a  fugitive  appa- 
rition at  the  turn  of  a  road.  They  had  also  exchanged 
formal  salutations,  but  had  not  spoken  to  each  other. 
More  than  once,  after  the  night  had  fallen,  Julien  had 
stopped  in  front  of  the  courtyard  of  La  Thuiliere,  and 
watched  the  lamps  being  lighted  inside.  But  he  had 
not  ventured  to  knock  at  the  door  of  the  house;  a  fool- 
ish timidity  had  prevented  him;  so  he  had  returned  to 
the  cMteau,  dissatisfied  and  reproaching  himself  for 
allowing  his  awkward  shyness  to  interpose,  as  it  were, 
a  wall  of  ice  between  himself  and  the  only  person  whose 
acquaintance  seemed  to  him  desirable. 

At  other  times  he  would  become  alarmed  at  the  large 
place  a  woman  occupied  in  his  thoughts,  and  he  con- 
gratulated himself  on  having  resisted  the  dangerous 
temptation  of  seeing  Mademoiselle  Vincart  again.  He 
acknowledged  that  this  singular  girl  had  for  him  an  at- 
traction against  which  he  ought  to  be  on  his  guard. 
Reine  might  be  said  to  live  alone  at  La  Thuiliere,  for 
her  father  could  hardly  be  regarded  seriously  as  a  pro- 
tector. Julien Js  visits  might  have  compromised  her,  and 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

the  young  man's  severe  principles  of  rectitude  forbade 
him  to  cause  scandal  which  he  could  not  repair.  He 
was  not  thinking  of  marriage,  and  even  had  his  thoughts 
inclined  that  way,  the  proprieties  and  usages  of  society 
which  he  had  always  in  some  degree  respected,  would 
not  allow  him  to  wed  a  peasant  girl.  It  was  evident, 
therefore,  that  both  prudence  and  uprightness  would 
enjoin  him  to  carry  on  any  future  relations  with  Made- 
moiselle Vincart  with  the  greatest  possible  reserve. 

Nevertheless,  and  in  spite  of  these  sage  reflections, 
the  enchanting  image  of  Reine  haunted  him  more  than 
was  at  all  reasonable.  Often,  during  his  hours  of  watch- 
fulness, he  would  see  her  threading  the  avenues  of  the 
forest,  her  dark  hair  half  floating  in  the  breeze,  and 
wearing  her  white  hood  and  her  skirt  bordered  with 
ivy.  Since  the  spring  had  returned,  she  had  become 
associated  in  his  mind  with  all  the  magical  effects  of  na- 
ture's renewal.  He  discovered  the  liquid  light  of  her 
dark  eyes  in  the  rippling  darkness  of  the  streams;  the 
lilies  recalled  the  faintly  tinted  paleness  of  her  cheeks; 
the  silene  roses,  scattered  throughout  the  hedges,  called 
forth  the  remembrance  of  the  young  maiden's  rosy  lips, 
and  the  vernal  odor  of  the  leaves  appeared  to  him  like 
an  emanation  of  her  graceful  and  wholesome  nature. 

This  state  of  feeling  began  to  act  like  an  obsession,  a 
sort  of  witchcraft,  which  alarmed  him.  What  was  she 
really,  this  strange  creature  ?  A  peasant  indeed,  appar- 
ently; but  there  was  also  something  more  refined  and 
cultivated  about  her,  due,  doubtless,  to  her  having  re- 
ceived her  education  in  a  city  school.  She  both  felt  and 
expressed  herself  differently  from  ordinary  country 

[108] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

girls,  although  retaining  the  frankness  and  untutored 
charm  of  rustic  natures.  She  exercised  an  uneasy  fas- 
cination over  Julien,  and  at  times  he  returned  to  the 
superstitious  impression  made  upon  him  by  Reine's 
behavior  and  discourse  in  the  forest.  He  again  ques- 
tioned with  himself  whether  this  female  form,  in  its  un- 
tamed beauty,  did  not  enfold  some  spirit  of  temptation, 
some  insidious  fairy,  similar  to  the  Melusine,  who  ap- 
peared to  Count  Raymond  in  the  forest  of  Poitiers. 

Most  of  the  time  he  would  himself  laugh  at  this  ex- 
travagant supposition,  but,  while  endeavoring  to  make 
light  of  his  own  cowardice,  the  idea  still  haunted  and 
tormented  him.  Sometimes,  in  the  effort  to  rid  himself 
of  the  persistence  of  his  own  imagination,  he  would  try 
to  exorcise  the  demon  who  had  got  hold  of  him,  and  this 
exorcism  consisted  in  despoiling  the  image  of  his  tempt- 
ress of  the  veil  of  virginal  purity  with  which  his  admira- 
tion had  first  invested  her.  Who  could  assure  him, 
after  all,  that  this  girl,  with  her  independent  ways,  liv- 
ing alone  at  her  farm,  running  through  the  woods  at 
all  hours,  was  as  irreproachable  as  he  had  imagined? 
In  the  village,  certainly,  she  was  respected  by  all ;  but 
people  were  very  tolerant — very  easy,  in  fact — on  the 
question  of  morals  in  this  district,  where  the  gallantries 
of  Claude  de  Buxieres  were  thought  quite  natural,  where 
the  illegitimacy  of  Claud  et  offended  no  one's  sense  of 
the  proprieties,  and  where  the  after-dinner  conversa- 
tions, among  the  class  considered  respectable,  were 
such  as  Julien  had  listened  to  with  repugnance.  Nev- 
ertheless, even  in  his  most  suspicious  moods,  Julien  had 
never  dared  broach  the  subject  to  Claudet. 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

Every  time  that  the  name  of  Reine  Vincart  had  come 
to  his  lips,  a  feeling  of  bashfulness,  in  addition  to  his 
ordinary  timidity,  had  prevented  him  from  interroga- 
ting Claudet  concerning  the  character  of  this  mysterious 
queen  of  the  woods.  Like  all  novices  in  love-affairs 
Julien  dreaded  that  his  feelings  should  be  divined,  at 
the  mere  mention  of  the  young  girPs  name.  He  pre- 
ferred to  remain  isolated,  concentrating  in  himself  his 
desires,  his  trouble  and  his  doubts. 

Yet,  whatever  efforts  he  made,  and  however  firmly 
he  adhered  to  his  resolution  of  silence,  the  hypochon- 
dria from  which  he  suffered  could  not  escape  the  notice 
of  the  grand  chasserot.  He  was  not  clear-sighted  enough 
to  discern  the  causes,  but  he  could  observe  the  effects. 
It  provoked  him  to  find  that  all  his  efforts  to  enliven  his 
cousin  had  proved  futile.  He  had  cudgelled  his  brains 
to  comprehend  whence  came  these  fits  of  terrible  melan- 
choly, and,  judging  Julien  by  himself,  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  his  ennui  proceeded  from  an  excess  of 
strictness  and  good  behavior. 

"Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  he,  one  evening  when 
they  were  walking  silently,  side  by  side,  in  the  avenues 
of  the  park,  which  resounded  with  the  song  of  the  night- 
ingales, "there  is  one  thing  that  troubles  me,  and  that 
is  that  you  do  not  confide  in  me." 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Claudet ?"  demanded 
Julien,  with  surprise. 

"  Parbleu !  the  way  you  act.  You  are,  if  I  may  say  so, 
too  secretive.  When  you  wanted  to  make  amends  for 
Claude  de  Buxieres's  negligence,  and  proposed  that  I 
should  live  here  with  you,  I  accepted  without  any  cere- 

[no] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

mony.  I  hoped  that  in  giving  me  a  place  at  your  fire 
and  your  table,  you  would  also  give  me  one  in  your 
affections,  and  that  you  would  allow  me  to  share  your 
sorrows,  like  a  true  brother  comrade " 

"I  assure  you,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  are  mistaken. 
If  I  had  any  serious  trouble  on  my  mind,  you  should  be 
the  first  to  know  it." 

"Oh!  that's  all  very  well  to  say;  but  you  are  unhappy 
all  the  same — one  can  see  it  in  your  mien,  and  shall  I 
tell  you  the  reason  ?  It  is  that  you  are  too  sedate,  Mon- 
sieur de  Buxieres;  you  have  need  of  a  sweetheart  to 
brighten  up  your  days." 

"Ho,  ho!"  replied  Julien,  coloring,  "do  you  wish  to 
have  me  married,  Claudet?" 

"Ah!  that's  another  affair.  No;  but  still  I  should 
like  to  see  you  take  some  interest  in  a  woman — some 
gay  young  person  who  would  rouse  you  up  and  make 
you  have  a  good  time.  There  is  no  lack  of  such  in  the 
district,  and  you  would  only  have  the  trouble  of  choos- 
ing." 

M.  de  Buxieres' s  color  deepened,  and  he  was  visibly 
annoyed. 

"That  is  a  singular  proposition,"  exclaimed  he,  after 
awhile;  "do  you  take  me  for  a  libertine?" 

"Don't  get  on  your  high  horse,  Monsieur  de  Bux- 
ieres! There  would  be  no  one  hurt.  The  girls  I  allude 
to  are  not  so  difficult  to  approach." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Claudet;  I  do  not 
enjoy  that  kind  of  amusement." 

"It  is  the  kind  that  young  men  of  our  age  indulge  in, 
all  the  same.  Perhaps  you  think  there  would  be  diffi- 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

culties  in  the  way.  They  would  not  be  insurmountable, 
I  can  assure  you;  those  matters  go  smoothly  enough 
here.  You  slip  your  arm  round  her  waist,  give  her  a 
good,  sounding  salute,  and  the  acquaintance  is  begun. 
You  have  only  to  improve  it!" 

"Enough  of  this,"  interrupted  Julien,  harshly,  "we 
never  can  agree  on  such  topics!" 

"As  you  please,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres;  since  you  do 
not  like  the  subject,  we  will  not  bring  it  up  again.  If 
I  mentioned  it  at  all,  it  was  that  I  saw  you  were  not  in- 
terested in  either  hunting  or  fishing,  and  thought  you 
might  prefer  some  other  kind  of  game.  I  do  wish  I  knew 
what  to  propose  that  would  give  you  a  little  pleasure," 
continued  Claudet,  who  was  profoundly  mortified  at 
the  ill-success  of  his  overtures.  "Now!  I  have  it.  Will 
you  come  with  me  to-morrow,  to  the  Ronces  woods? 
The  charcoal-dealers  who  are  constructing  their  fur- 
naces for  the  sale,  will  complete  their  dwellings  this 
evening  and  expect  to  celebrate  in  the  morning.  They 
call  it  watering  the  bouquet,  and  it  is  the  occasion  of  a 
little  festival,  to  which  we,  as  well  at  the  presiding  offi- 
cials of  the  cutting,  are  invited.  Naturally,  the  guests 
pay  their  share  in  bottles  of  wine.  You  can  hardly  be 
excused  from  showing  yourself  among  these  good  peo- 
ple. It  is  one  of  the  customs  of  the  country.  I  have 
promised  to  be  there,  and  it  is  certain  that  Reine  Vin- 
cart,  who  has  bought  the  Ronces  property,  will  not  fail 
to  be  present  at  the  ceremony." 

Julien  had  already  the  words  on  his  lips  for  declining 
Claudet's  offer,  when  the  name  of  Reine  Vincart  pro- 
duced an  immediate  change  in  his  resolution.  It  just 

[112] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


crossed  his  mind  that  perhaps  Claudet  had  thrown  out 
her  name  as  a  bait  and  an  argument  in  favor  of  his 
theories  on  the  facility  of  love-affairs  in  the  country. 
However  that  might  be,  the  allusion  to  the  probable 
presence  of  Mademoiselle  Vincart  at  the  coming  fete, 
rendered  young  Buxieres  more  tractable,  and  he  made 
no  further  difficulties  about  accompanying  his  cousin. 
The  next  morning,  after  partaking  hastily  of  break- 
fast, they  started  on  their  way  toward  the  cutting.  The 
charcoal-dealers  had  located  themselves  on  the  border 
of  the  forest,  not  far  from  the  spot  where,  in  the  month 
of  January,  Reine  and  Julien  had  visited  the  wood- 
cutters. Under  the  sheltering  branches  of  a  great  ash- 
tree,  the  newly  erected  hut  raised  its  peaked  roof  cov- 
ered with  clods  of  turf,  and  two  furnaces,  just  completed, 
occupied  the  ground  lately  prepared.  One  of  them, 
ready  for  use,  was  covered  with  the  black  earth  called 
frazil,  which  is  extracted  from  the  site  of  old  charcoal- 
works;  the  other,  in  course  of  construction,  showed  the 
successive  layers  of  logs  ranged  in  circles  inside,  ready 
for  the  fire.  The  workmen  moved  around,  going  and 
coming;  first,  the  head-man  or  patron,  a  man  of  middle 
age,  of  hairy  chest,  embrowned  visage,  and  small  beady 
eyes  under  bushy  eyebrows ;  his  wife,  a  little,  shrivelled, 
elderly  woman;  their  daughter,  a  thin  awkward  girl  of 
seventeen,  with  fluffy  hair  and  a  cunning,  hard  expres- 
sion ;  and  finally,  their  three  boys,  robust  young  fellows, 
serving  their  apprenticeship  at  the  trade.  This  party 
was  reenforced  by  one  or  two  more  single  men,  and 
some  of  the  daughters  of  the  woodchoppers,  attracted  by 
the  prospect  of  a  day  of  dancing  and  joyous  feasting. 
8  ["31 


ANDRti  THEURIET 

These  persons  were  sauntering  in  and  out  under  the 
trees,  waiting  for  the  dinner,  which  was  to  be  furnished 
mainly  by  the  guests,  the  contribution  of  the  charcoal- 
men  being  limited  to  a  huge  pot  of  potatoes  which  the 
patroness  was  cooking  over  the  fire,  kindled  in  front  of 
the  hut. 

The  arrival  of  Julien  and  Claudet,  attended  by  the 
small  cowboy,  puffing  and  blowing  under  a  load  of  pro- 
visions, was  hailed  with  exclamations  of  gladness  and 
welcome.  While  one  of  the  assistants  was  carefully  un- 
rolling the  big  loaves  of  white  bread,  the  enormous  meat 
pastry,  and  the  bottles  encased  in  straw,  Reine  Vincart 
appeared  suddenly  on  the  scene,  accompanied  by  one 
of  the  farm-hands,  who  was  also  tottering  under  the 
weight  of  a  huge  basket,  from  the  corners  of  which 
peeped  the  ends  of  bottles,  and  the  brown  knuckle  of  a 
smoked  ham.  At  sight  of  the  young  proprietress  of  La 
Thuiliere,  the  hurrahs  burst  forth  again,  with  redoubled 
and  more  sustained  energy.  As  she  stood  there  smiling, 
under  the  greenish  shadow  cast  by  the  ash-trees,  Reine 
appeared  to  Julien  even  more  seductive  than  among 
the  frosty  surroundings  of  the  previous  occasion.  Her 
simple  and  rustic  spring  costume  was  marvellously  be- 
coming: a  short  blue-and-yellow  striped  skirt,  a  tight 
jacket  of  light-colored  material,  fitted  closely  to  the 
waist,  a  flat  linen  collar  tied  with  a  narrow  blue  ribbon, 
and  a  bouquet  of  woodruff  at  her  bosom.  She  wore 
stout  leather  boots,  and  a  large  straw  hat,  which  she 
threw  carelessly  down  on  entering  the  hut.  Among  so 
many  faces  of  a  different  type,  all  somewhat  disfigured 
by  hardships  of  exposure,  this  lovely  face  with  its  olive 

t«4] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


complexion,  lustrous  black  eyes,  and  smiling  red  lips, 
framed  in  dark,  soft,  wavy  hair  resting  on  her  plump 
shoulders,  seemed  to  spread  a  sunshiny  glow  over  the 
scene.  It  was  a  veritable  portrayal  of  the  "queen  of  the 
woods,"  appearing  triumphant  among  her  rustic  sub- 
jects. As  an  emblem  of  her  royal  prerogative,  she  held 
in  her  hand  an  enormous  bouquet  of  flowers  she  had 
gathered  on  her  way:  honeysuckles,  columbine,  all  sorts 
of  grasses  with  shivering  spikelets,  black  alder  blossoms 
with  their  white  centres,  and  a  profusion  of  scarlet  pop- 
pies. Each  of  these  exhaled  its  own  salubrious  spring- 
like perfume,  and  a  light  cloud  of  pollen,  which  covered 
the  eyelashes  and  hair  of  the  young  girl  with  a  delicate 
white  powder. 

"Here,  Pere  Theotime,"  said  she,  handing  her  col- 
lection over  to  the  master  charcoal-dealer,  "I  gathered 
these  for  you  to  ornament  the  roof  of  your  dwelling." 

She  then  drew  near  to  Claudet;  gave  him  her  hand 
in  comrade  fashion,  and  saluted  Julien: 

"Good-morning,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  here.  Was  it  Claudet  who  brought  you, 
or  did  you  come  of  your  own  accord?" 

While  Julien,  dazed  and  bewildered,  was  seeking  a 
reply,  she  passed  quickly  to  the  next  group,  going  from 
one  to  another,  and  watching  with  interest  the  placing 
of  the  bouquet  on  the  summit  of  the  hut.  One  of  the 
men  brought  a  ladder  and  fastened  the  flowers  to  a 
spike.  When  they  were  securely  attached  and  began 
to  nod  in  the  air,  he  waved  his  hat  and  shouted:  "Hou, 
houp!"  This  was  the  signal  for  going  to  table. 

The  food  had  been  spread  on  the  tablecloth  under 
[115] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

the  shade  of  the  ash-trees,  and  all  the  guests  sat  around 
on  sacks  of  charcoal;  for  Reine  and  Julien  alone  they 
had  reserved  two  stools,  made  by  the  master,  and  thus 
they  found  themselves  seated  side  by  side.  Soon  a  pro- 
found, almost  religious,  silence  indicated  that  the  attack 
was  about  to  begin;  after  which,  and  when  the  first  fury 
of  their  appetites  had  been  appeased,  the  tongues  began 
to  be  loosened:  jokes  and  anecdotes,  seasoned  with 
loud  bursts  of  laughter,  were  bandied  to  and  fro  under 
the  spreading  branches,  and  presently  the  wine  lent  its 
aid  to  raise  the  spirits  of  the  company  to  an  exuberant 
pitch.  But  there  was  a  certain  degree  of  restraint  ob- 
served by  these  country  folk.  Was  it  owing  to  Reine's 
presence?  Julien  noticed  that  the  remarks  of  the 
working-people  were  in  a  very  much  better  tone  than 
those  of  the  Auberive  gentry,  with  whom  he  had  break- 
fasted; the  gayety  of  these  children  of  the  woods,  al- 
though of  a  common  kind,  was  always  kept  within 
decent  limits,  and  he  never  once  had  occasion  to  feel 
ashamed.  He  felt  more  at  ease  among  them  than  among 
the  notables  of  the  borough,  and  he  did  not  regret  hav- 
ing accepted  Claudet's  invitation. 

"I  am  glad  I  came,"  murmured  he  in  Reine's  ear, 
"and  I  never  have  eaten  with  so  much  enjoyment!" 

"Ah!  I  am  glad  of  it,"  replied  the  young  girl,  gayly, 
"perhaps  now  you  will  begin  to  like  our  woods." 

When  nothing  was  left  on  the  table  but  bones  and 
empty  bottles,  Pere  Theotime  took  a  bottle  of  sealed 
wine,  drew  the  cork,  and  filled  the  glasses. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "before  christening  our  bouquet,  we 
will  drink  to  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  who  has  brought 

[116] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

us  his  good  wine,  and  to  our  sweet  lady,  Mademoiselle 
Vincart" 

The  glasses  clinked,  and  the  toasts  were  drunk  with 
fervor. 

"Mamselle  Reine,"  resumed  Pere  Theotime,  with  a 
certain  amount  of  solemnity,  "you  can  see,  the  hut  is 
built ;  it  will  be  occupied  to-night,  and  I  trust  good  work 
will  be  done.  You  can  perceive  from  here  our  first  fur- 
nace, all  decorated  and  ready  to  be  set  alight.  But,  in 
order  that  good  luck  shall  attend  us,  you  yourself  must 
set  light  to  the  fire.  I  ask  you,  therefore,  to  ascend  to 
the  top  of  the  chimney  and  throw  in  the  first  embers; 
may  I  ask  this  of  your  good-nature?" 

"Why,  certainly!"  replied  Reine,  "come,  Monsieur 
de  Buxieres,  you  must  see  how  we  light  a  charcoal  fur- 


nace." 


All  the  guests  jumped  from  their  seats;  one  of  the 
men  took  the  ladder  and  leaned  it  against  the  sloping 
side  of  the  furnace.  Meanwhile,  Pere  Theotime  was 
bringing  an  earthen  vase  full  of  burning  embers.  Reine 
skipped  lightly  up  the  steps,  and  when  she  reached  the 
top,  stood  erect  near  the  orifice  of  the  furnace. 

Her  graceful  outline  came  out  in  strong  relief  against 
the  clear  sky;  one  by  one,  she  took  the  embers  handed 
her  by  the  charcoal-dealer,  and  threw  them  into  the 
opening  in  the  middle  of  the  furnace.  Soon  there  was  a 
crackling  inside,  followed  by  a  dull  rumbling;  the  chips 
and  rubbish  collected  at  the  bottom  had  caught  fire, 
and  the  air-holes  left  at  the  base  of  the  structure  facili- 
tated the  passage  of  the  current,  and  hastened  the  kin- 
dling of  the  wood. 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

" Bravo;  we've  got  it!"  exclaimed  Pere  Theotime. 

"Bravo!"  repeated  the  young  people,  as  much  ex- 
hilarated with  the  open  air  as  with  the  two  or  three 
glasses  of  white  wine  they  had  drunk.  Lads  and  lasses 
joined  hands  and  leaped  impetuously  around  the  fur- 
nace. 

"A  song,  Reine!  Sing  us  a  song!"  cried  the  young 
girls. 

She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and,  without  fur- 
ther solicitation,  intoned,  in  her  clear  and  sympathetic 
voice,  a  popular  song,  with  a  rhythmical  refrain : 

My  father  bid  me 

Go  sell  my  wheat. 
To  the  market  we  drove — 

"Good-morrow,  my  sweet! 
How  much,  can  you  say, 

Will  its  value  prove?" 

The  embroidered  rose 
Lies  on  my  glove. 

"A  hundred  francs 

Will  its  value  prove." 
"When  you  sell  your  wheat, 

Do  you  sell  your  love?" 

The  embroidered  rose 
Lies  on  my  glove! 

"My  heart,  Monsieur, 

Will  never  rove, 
I  have  promised  it 

To  my  own  true  love. " 

The  embroidered  rose 
Lies  on  my  glove. 
[118] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"For  me  he  braves 

The  wind  and  the  rain; 
For  me  he  weaves 
A  silver  chain." 

On  my  'broidered  glove. 
Lies  the  rose  again. 

Repeating  the  refrain  in  chorus,  boys  and  girls  danced 
and  leaped  in  the  sunlight.  Julien  leaned  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree,  listening  to  the  sonorous  voice  of  Reine, 
and  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  the  singer.  When  she 
had  ended  her  song,  Reine  turned  in  another  direction; 
but  the  dancers  had  got  into  the  spirit  of  it  and  could 
not  stand  still;  one  of  the  men  came  forward,  and 
started  another  popular  air,  which  all  the  rest  repeated  in 
unison : 

Up  in  the  woods 

Sleeps  the  fairy  to-day: 
The  king,  her  lover, 
Has  strolled  that  way! 

Will  those  who  are  young 
Be  married  or  nay? 
Yea,  yea! 

Carried  away  by  the  rhythm,  and  the  pleasure  of 
treading  the  soft  grass  under  their  feet,  the  dancers 
quickened  their  pace.  The  chain  of  young  folks  dis- 
connected for  a  moment,  was  reformed,  and  twisted  in 
and  out  among  the  trees;  sometimes  in  light,  some- 
times in  shadow,  until  they  disappeared,  singing,  into 
the  very  heart  of  the  forest.  With  the  exception  of  Pere 
The*otime  and  his  wife,  who  had  gone  to  superintend 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

the  furnace,  all  the  guests,  including  Claudet,  had 
joined  the  gay  throng.  Reine  and  Julien,  the  only  ones 
remaining  behind,  stood  in  the  shade  near  the  border- 
line of  the  forest..  It  was  high  noon,  and  the  sun's  rays, 
shooting  perpendicularly  down,  made  the  shade  desira- 
ble. Reine  proposed  to  her  companion  to  enter  the  hut 
and  rest,  while  waiting  for  the  return  of  the  dancers. 
Julien  accepted  readily;  but  not  without  being  sur- 
prised that  the  young  girl  should  be  the  first  to  suggest 
a  tete-a-tete  in  the  obscurity  of  a  remote  hut.  Although 
more  than  ever  fascinated  by  the  unusual  beauty  of 
Mademoiselle  Vincart,  he  was  astonished,  and  occa- 
sionally shocked,  by  the  audacity  and  openness  of  her 
action  toward  him.  Once  more  the  spirit  of  doubt  took 
possession  of  him,  and  he  questioned  whether  this  free- 
dom of  manners  was  to  be  attributed  to  innocence  or 
effrontery.  After  the  pleasant  friendliness  of  the  mid- 
day repast,  and  the  enlivening  effect  of  the  dance  round 
the  furnace,  he  was  both  glad  and  troubled  to  find  him- 
self alone  with  Reine.  He  longed  to  let  her  know  what 
tender  admiration  she  excited  in  his  mind;  rbut  he  did 
not  know  how  to  set  about  it,  nor  in  what  style  to  address 
a  girl  of  so  strange  and  unusual  a  disposition.  So  he 
contented  himself  with  fixing  an  enamored  gaze  upon 
her,  while  she  stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  inner 
posts,  and  twisted  mechanically  between  her  fingers  a 
branch  of  wild  honeysuckle.  Annoyed  at  his  taci- 
turnity, she  at  last  broke  the  silence: 

"You  are  not  saying  anything,  Monsieur  de  Bux- 
ieres;  do  you  regret  having  come  to  this  fete?  " 

"Regret  it,  Mademoiselle?"  returned  he;  "it  is  a 
[120] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

long  time  since  I  have  had  so  pleasant  a  day,  and  I 
thank  you,  for  it  is  to  you  I  owe  it." 

"To  me?  You  are  joking.  It  is  the  good-humor 
of  the  people,  the  spring  sunshine,  and  the  pure  air  of 
the  forest  that  you  must  thank.  I  have  no  part  in  it." 

"You  are  everything  in  it,  on  the  contrary,"  said  he, 
tenderly.  "Before  I  knew  you,  I  had  met  with  country 
people,  seen  the  sun  and  trees,  and  so  on,  and  nothing 
made  any  impression  on  me.  But,  just  now,  when  you 
were  singing  over  there,  I  felt  gladdened  and  inspired; 
I  felt  the  beauty  of  the  woods,  I  sympathized  with  these 
good  people,  and  these  grand  trees,  all  these  things 
among  which  you  live  so  happily.  It  is  you  who  have 
worked  this  miracle.  Ah!  you  are  well  named.  You 
are  truly  the  fairy  of  the  feast,  the  queen  of  the 
woods ! " 

Astonished  at  the  enthusiasm  of  her  companion,  Reine 
looked  at  him  side  wise,  half  closing  her  eyes,  and  per- 
ceived that  he  was  altogether  transformed.  He  ap- 
peared to  have  suddenly  thawed.  He  was  no  longer  the 
awkward,  sickly  youth,  whose  every  movement  was  par- 
alyzed by  timidity,  and  whose  words  froze  on  his  tongue ; 
his  slender  frame  had  become  supple,  his  blue  eyes  en- 
larged and  illuminated ;  his  delicate  features  expressed 
refinement,  tenderness,  and  passion.  The  young  girl 
was  moved  and  won  by  so  much  emotion,  the  first  that 
Julien  had  ever  manifested  toward  her.  Far  from  be- 
ing offended  at  this  species  of  declaration,  she  replied, 
gayly: 

"As  to  the  queen  of  the  woods  working  miracles,  I 
know  none  so  powerful  as  these  flowers." 

[Mil 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

She  unfastened  the  bouquet  of  white  starry  woodruff 
from  her  corsage,  and  handed  them  over  to  him  in  their 
envelope  of  green  leaves. 

"Do  you  know  them?"  said  she;  "see  how  sweet 
they  smell!  And  the  odor  increases  as  they  wither." 

Julien  had  carried  the  bouquet  to  his  lips,  and  was 
inhaling  slowly  the  delicate  perfume. 

"Our  woodsmen,"  she  continued,  "make  with  this 
plant  a  broth  which  cures  from  ill  effects  of  either  cold 
or  heat  as  if  by  enchantment;  they  also  infuse  it  into 
white  wine,  and  convert  it  into  a  beverage  which  they 
call  May  wine,  and  which  is  very  intoxicating." 

Julien  was  no  longer  listening  to  these  details.  He 
kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  Mademoiselle  Vincart, 
and  continued  to  inhale  rapturously  the  bouquet,  and  to 
experience  a  kind  of  intoxication. 

"Let  me  keep  these  flowers,"  he  implored,  in  a  chok- 
ing voice. 

"Certainly,"  replied  she,  gayly;  "keep  them,  if  it 
will  give  you  pleasure." 

"Thank  you,"  he  murmured,  hiding  them  in  his 
bosom. 

Reine  was  surprised  at  his  attaching  such  exagger- 
ated importance  to  so  slight  a  favor,  and  a  sudden  flush 
overspread  her  cheeks.  She  almost  repented  having 
given  him  the  flowers  when  she  saw  what  a  tender 
reception  he  had  given  them,  so  she  replied,  suggest- 
ively : 

"Do  not  thank  me;  the  gift  is  not  significant.  Thou- 
sands of  similar  flowers  grow  in  the  forest,  and  one  has 
only  to  stoop  and  gather  them." 

[122] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


He  dared  not  reply  that  this  bouquet,  having  been 
worn  by  her,  was  worth  much  more  to  him  than  any 
other,  but  he  thought  it,  and  the  thought  aroused  in  his 
mind  a  series  of  new  ideas.  As  Reine  had  so  readily 
granted  this  first  favor,  was  she  not  tacitly  encouraging 
him  to  ask  for  others  ?  Was  he  dealing  with  a  simple, 
innocent  girl,  or  a  village  coquette,  accustomed  to  be 
courted?  And  on  this  last  supposition  should  he  not 
pass  for  a  simpleton  in  the  eyes  of  this  experienced  girl, 
if  he  kept  himself  at  too  great  a  distance.  He  remem- 
bered the  advice  of  Claudet  concerning  the  method  of 
conducting  love-affairs  smoothly  with  certain  women  of 
the  country.  Whether  she  was  a  coquette  or  not,  Reine 
had  bewitched  him.  The  charm  had  worked  more  pow- 
erfully still  since  he  had  been  alone  with  her  in  this  ob- 
scure hut,  where  the  cooing  of  the  wild  pigeons  faintly 
reached  their  ears,  and  the  penetrating  odors  of  the  for- 
est pervaded  their  nostrils.  Julien's  gaze  rested  lov- 
ingly on  Reine's  wavy  locks,  falling  heavily  over  her 
neck,  on  her  half -covered  eyes  with  their  luminous  pu- 
pils full  of  golden  specks  of  light,  on  her  red  lips,  on  the 
two  little  brown  moles  spotting  her  somewhat  decollete 
neck.  He  thought  her  adorable,  and  was  dying  to  tell 
her  so;  but  when  he  endeavored  to  formulate  his  dec- 
laration, the  words  stuck  fast  in  his  throat,  his  veins 
swelled,  his  throat  became  dry,  his  head  swam.  In  this 
disorder  of  his  faculties  he  brought  to  mind  the  rec- 
ommendation of  Claudet:  "One  arm  round  the  waist, 
two  sounding  kisses,  and  the  thing  is  done."  He  rose 
abruptly,  and  went  up  to  the  young  girl: 

"Since  you  have  given  me  these  flowers,"  he  began, 
[123] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

in  a  husky  voice,  "will  you  also,  in  sign  of  friendship, 
give  me  your  hand,  as  you  gave  it  to  Claudet?" 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  held  out  her  hand; 
but,  hardly  had  he  touched  it  when  he  completely  lost 
control  of  himself,  and  slipping  the  arm  which  remained 
free  around  Reine's  waist,  he  drew  her  toward  him  and 
lightly  touched  with  his  lips  her  neck,  the  beauty  of 
which  had  so  magnetized  him. 

The  young  girl  was  stronger  than  he;  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  she  tore  herself  from  his  audacious  clasp, 
threw  him  violently  backward,  and  with  one  bound 
reached  the  door  of  the  hut.  She  stood  there  a  moment, 
pale,  indignant,  her  eyes  blazing,  and  then  exclaimed, 
in  a  hollow  voice : 

"If  you  come  a  step  nearer,  I  will  call  the  charcoal- 
men!" 

But  Julien  had  no  desire  to  renew  the  attack;  already 
sobered,  cowed,  and  repentant,  he  had  retreated  to  the 
most  obscure  corner  of  the  dwelling. 

"Are  you  mad?"  she  continued,  with  vehemence, 
"or  has  the  wine  got  into  your  head  ?  It  is  rather  early 
for  you  to  be  adopting  the  ways  of  your  deceased 
cousin!  I  give  you  notice  that  they  will  not  succeed 
with  me ! "  And,  at  the  same  moment,  tears  of  humilia- 
tion filled  her  eyes.  "  I  did  not  expect  this  of  you,  Mon- 
sieur de  Buxieres!" 

"Forgive  me!"  faltered  Julien,  whose  heart  smote 
him  at  the  sight  of  her  tears;  "I  have  behaved  like  a 
miserable  sinner  and  a  brute!  It  was  a  moment  of 
madness — forget  it  and  forgive  me!" 

"Nobody  ever  treated  me  with  disrespect  before," 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

returned  the  young  girl,  in  a  suffocated  voice;  "I  was 
wrong  to  allow  you  any  familiarity,  that  is  all.  It  shall 
not  happen  to  me  again!" 

Julien  remained  mute,  overpowered  with  shame  and 
remorse.  Suddenly,  in  the  stillness  around,  rose  the 
voices  of  the  dancers  returning  and  singing  the  refrain 
of  the  rondelay: 

I  had  a  rose — 

On  my  heart  it  lay — 
Will  those  who  are  young 

Be  married,  or  nay? 
Yea,  yea! 

"There  are  our  people,"  said  Reine,  softly,  "I  am 
going  to  them;  adieu — do  not  follow  me!" 

She  left  the  hut  and  hastened  toward  the  furnace, 
while  Julien,  stunned  with  the  rapidity  with  which  this 
unfortunate  scene  had  been  enacted,  sat  down  on  one 
of  the  benches,  a  prey  to  confused  feelings  of  shame 
and  angry  mortification.  No,  certainly,  he  did  not  in- 
tend to  follow  her!  He  had  no  desire  to  show  himself 
in  public  with  this  young  girl  whom  he  had  so  stupidly 
insulted,  and  in  whose  face  he  never  should  be  able  to 
look  again.  Decidedly,  he  did  not  understand  women, 
since  he  could  not  even  tell  a  virtuous  girl  from  a  frivo- 
lous coquette!  Why  had  he  not  been  able  to  see  that 
the  good-natured,  simple  familiarity  of  Reine  Vincart 
had  nothing  in  common  with  the  enticing  allurements 
of  those  who,  to  use  Claudet's  words,  had  "thrown 
their  caps  over  the  wall."  How  was  it  that  he  had  not 
read,  in  those  eyes,  pure  as  the  fountain's  source,  the 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

candor  and  uprightness  of  a  maiden  heart  which  had 
nothing  to  conceal.  This  cruel  evidence  of  his  inability 
to  conduct  himself  properly  in  the  affairs  of  life  exas- 
perated and  humiliated  him,  and  at  the  same  time  that 
he  felt  his  self-love  most  deeply  wounded,  he  was  con- 
scious of  being  more  hopelessly  enamored  of  Reine 
Vincart.  Never  had  she  appeared  so  beautiful  as  dur- 
ing the  indignant  movement  which  had  separated  her 
from  him.  Her  look  of  mingled  anger  and  sadness, 
the  expression  of  her  firm,  set  lips,  the  quivering  nos- 
trils, the  heaving  of  her  bosom,  he  recalled  it  all,  and 
the  image  of  her  proud  beauty  redoubled  his  grief  and 
despair. 

He  remained  a  long  time  concealed  in  the  shadow  of 
the  hut.  Finally,  when  he  heard  the  voices  dying  away 
in  different  directions,  and  was  satisfied  that  the  char- 
coal-men were  attending  to  their  furnace  work,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  come  out.  But,  as  he  did  not  wish 
to  meet  any  one,  instead  of  crossing  through  the  cutting 
he  plunged  into  the  wood,  taking  no  heed  in  what  direc- 
tion he  went,  and  being  desirous  of  walking  alone  as 
long  as  possible,  without  meeting  a  single  human  visage. 

As  he  wandered  aimlessly  through  the  deepening 
shadows  of  the  forest,  crossed  here  and  there  by  golden 
bars  of  light  from  the  slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
he  pondered  over  the  probable  results  of  his  unfortunate 
behavior.  Reine  would  certainly  keep  silence  on  the 
affront  she  had  received,  but  would  she  be  indulgent 
enough  to  forget  or  forgive  the  insult?  The  most  evi- 
dent result  of  the  affair  would  be  that  henceforth  all 
friendly  relations  between  them  must  cease.  She  cer- 

[I26] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

tainly  would  maintain  a  severe  attitude  toward  the  per- 
son who  had  so  grossly  insulted  her,  but  would  she  be 
altogether  pitiless  in  her  anger  ?  All  through  his  dismal 
feelings  of  self-reproach,  a  faint  hope  of  reconciliation 
kept  him  from  utter  despair.  As  he  reviewed  the  details 
of  the  shameful  occurrence,  he  remembered  that  the 
expression  of  her  countenance  had  been  one  more  of 
sorrow  than  of  anger.  The  tone  of  melancholy  re- 
proach in  which  she  had  uttered  the  words:  "I  did  not 
expect  this  from  you,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres!"  seemed 
to  convey  the  hope  that  he  might,  one  day,  be  forgiven. 
At  the  same  time,  the  poignancy  of  his  regret  showed 
him  how  much  hold  the  young  girl  had  taken  upon  his 
affections,  and  how  cheerless  and  insipid  his  life  would 
be  if  he  were  obliged  to  continue  on  unfriendly  terms 
with  the  woodland  queen. 

He  had  come  to  this  conclusion  in  his  melancholy  re- 
flections, when  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  forest. 

He  stood  above  the  calm,  narrow  valley  of  Vivey; 
on  the  right,  over  the  tall  ash-trees,  peeped  the  pointed 
turrets  of  the  chateau;  on  the  left,  and  a  little  farther 
behind,  was  visible  a  whitish  line,  contrasting  with  the 
surrounding  verdure,  the  winding  path  to  La  Thuiliere, 
through  the  meadow-land  of  Planche-au-Vacher.  Sud- 
denly, the  sound  of  voices  reached  his  ears,  and,  looking 
more  closely,  he  perceived  Reine  and  Claudet  walking 
side  by  side  down  the  narrow  path.  The  evening  air 
softened  the  resonance  of  the  voices,  so  that  the  words 
themselves  were'  not  audible,  but  the  intonation  of  the 
alternate  speakers,  and  their  confidential  and  friendly 
gestures,  evinced  a  very  animated,  if  not  tender,  ex- 

[127] 


ANDRti  THEUR1ET 

change  of  sentiments.  At  times  the  conversation  was 
enlivened  by  Claudet's  bursts  of  laughter,  or  an  amica- 
ble gesture  from  Reine.  At  one  moment,  Julien  saw  the 
young  girl  lay  her  hand  familiarly  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  grand  chasserot,  and  immediately  a  pang  of  intense 
jealousy  shot  through  his  heart.  At  last  the  young  pair 
arrived  at  the  banks  of  a  stream,  which  traversed  the 
path  and  had  become  swollen  by  the  recent  heavy  rains. 
Claudet  took  Reine  by  the  waist  and  lifted  her  in  his  vig- 
orous arms,  while  he  picked  his  way  across  the  stream ; 
then  they  resumed  their  way  toward  the  bottom  of  the 
pass,  and  the  tall  brushwood  hid  their  retreating  forms 
from  Julien' s  eager  gaze,  although  it  was  long  before 
the  vibrations  of  their  sonorous  voices  ceased  echoing  in 
his  ears. 

"Ah!"  thought  he,  quite  overcome  by  this  new  de- 
velopment, "she  stands  less  on  ceremony  with  him 
than  with  me!  How  close  they  kept  to  each  other  in 
that  lonely  path !  With  what  animation  they  conversed ! 
with  what  abandon  she  allowed  herself  to  be  carried  in 
his  arms!  All  that  indicates  an  intimacy  of  long  stand- 
ing, and  explains  a  good  many  things!" 

He  recalled  Reine's  visit  to  the  chateau,  and  how 
cleverly  she  had  managed  to  inform  him  of  the  parent- 
age existing  between  Claudet  and  the  deceased  Claude 
de  Buxieres;  how  she  had  by  her  conversation  raised  a 
feeling  of  pity  in  his  mind  for  Claudet,  and  a  desire  to 
repair  the  negligence  of  the  deceased. 

"How  could  I  be  so  blind!"  thought  Julien,  with 
secret  scorn  of  himself;  "I  did  not  see  anything,  I  com- 
prehended none  of  their  artifices!  They  love  each 

[128] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

other,  that  is  sure,  and  I  have  been  playing  throughout 
the  part  of  a  dupe.  I  do  not  blame  him.  He  was  in 
love,  and  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded.  But  she! 
whom  I  thought  so  open,  so  true,  so  loyal!  Ah!  she  is 
no  better  than  others  of  her  class,  and  she  was  coquet- 
ting with  me  in  order  to  insure  her  lover  a  position! 
Well!  one  more  illusion  is  destroyed.  Ecclesiastes  was 
right.  Invent  amarivrem  morte  mulierem,  'woman  is 
more  bitter  than  death'!" 

Twilight  had  come,  and  it  was  already  dark  in  the 
forest.  Slowly  and  reluctantly,  Julien  descended  the 
slope  leading  to  the  chateau,  and  the  gloom  of  the  woods 
entered  his  heart. 


[129] 


CHAPTER  VI 

LOVE  BY  PROXY 

EALOUSY  is  a  maleficent  deity  of  the 
harpy  tribe;  she  embitters  everything 
she  touches. 

Ever  since  the  evening  that  Julien 
had  witnessed  the  crossing  of  the  brook 
by  Reine  and  Claudet,  a  secret  poison 
had  run  through  his  veins,  and  embit- 
tered every  moment  of  his  life.  Nei- 
ther the  glowing  sun  of  June,  nor  the  glorious  develop- 
ment of  the  woods  had  any  charm  for  him.  In  vain  did 
the  fields  display  their  golden  treasures  of  ripening  corn ; 
in  vain  did  the  pale  barley  and  the  silvery  oats  wave  their 
luxuriant  growth  against  the  dark  background  of  the 
woods;  all  these  fairylike  effects  of  summer  suggested 
only  prosaic  and  misanthropic  reflections  in  Julien's 
mind.  He  thought  of  the  tricks,  the  envy  and  hatred 
that  the  possession  of  these  little  squares  of  ground 
brought  forth  among  their  rapacious  owners.  The  pro- 
lific exuberance  of  forest  vegetation  was  an  exemplifica- 
tion of  the  fierce  and  destructive  activity  of  the  blind 
forces  of  Nature.  All  the  earth  was  a  hateful  theatre 
for  the  continual  enactment  of  bloody  and  monoto- 
nous dramas;  the  worm  consuming  the  plant ;  the  bird 
mangling  the  insect,  the  deer  fighting  among  them- 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


selves,  and  man,  in  his  turn,  pursuing  all  kinds  of  game. 
He  identified  nature  with  woman,  both  possessing  in  his 
eyes  an  equally  deceiving  appearance,  the  same  beguil- 
ing beauty,  and  the  same  spirit  of  ambuscade  and  per- 
fidy. The  people  around  him  inspired  him  only  with 
mistrust  and  suspicion.  In  every  peasant  he  met  he 
recognized  an  enemy,  prepared  to  cheat  him  with 
wheedling  words  and  hypocritical  lamentations.  Al- 
though during  the  few  months  he  had  experienced  the 
delightful  influence  of  Reine  Vincart,  he  had  been  drawn 
out  of  his  former  prejudices,  and  had  imagined  he  was 
rising  above  the  littleness  of  every-day  worries;  he  now 
fell  back  into  hard  reality ;  his  feet  were  again  embedded 
in  the  muddy  ground  of  village  politics,  and  conse- 
quently village  life  was  a  burden  to  him. 

He  never  went  out,  fearing  to  meet  Reine  Vincart. 
He  fancied  that  the  sight  of  her  might  aggravate  the 
malady  from  which  he  suffered  and  for  which  he  eagerly 
sought  a  remedy. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  cloistered  retirement  to 
which  he  had  condemned  himself,  his  wound  remained 
open.  Instead  of  solitude  having  a  healing  effect,  it 
seemed  to  make  his  sufferings  greater.  When,  in  the 
evening,  as  he  sat  moodily  at  his  window,  he  would  hear 
Claudet  whistle  to  his  dog,  and  hurry  off  in  the  direction 
of  La  Thuiliere,  he  would  say  to  himself:  "He  is  going 
to  keep  an  appointment  with  Reine."  Then  a  feeling 
of  blind  rage  would  overpower  him ;  he  felt  tempted  to 
leave  his  room  and  follow  his  rival  secretly — a  moment 
afterward  he  would  be  ashamed  of  his  meanness.  Was 
it  not  enough  that  he  had  once,  although  involuntarily, 

[131] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

played  the  degrading  part  of  a  spy!  What  satisfaction 
could  he  derive  from  such  a  course  ?  Would  he  be  much 
benefited  when  he  returned  home  with  rage  in  his  heart 
and  senses,  after  watching  a  love-scene  between  the 
young  pair?  This  consideration  kept  him  in  his  seat, 
but  his  imagination  ran  riot  instead;  it  went  galloping 
at  the  heels  of  Claudet,  and  accompanied  him  down  the 
winding  paths,  moistened  by  the  evening  dew.  As  the 
moon  rose  above  the  trees,  illuminating  the  foliage  with 
her  mild  bluish  rays,  he  pictured  to  himself  the  meeting 
of  the  two  lovers  on  the  flowery  turf  bathed  in  the  sil- 
very light.  His  brain  seemed  on  fire.  He  saw  Reine  in 
white  advancing  like  a  moonbeam,  and  Claudet  passing 
his  arm  around  the  yielding  waist  of  the  maiden.  He 
tried  to  substitute  himself  in  idea,  and  to  imagine  the 
delight  of  the  first  words  of  welcome,  and  the  ecstasy  of 
the  prolonged  embrace.  A  shiver  ran  through  his  whole 
body;  a  sharp  pain  transfixed  his  heart;  his  throat 
closed  convulsively;  half  fainting,  he  leaned  against  the 
window-frame,  his  eyes  closed,  his  ears  stopped,  to  shut 
out  all  sights  or  sounds,  longing  only  for  oblivion  and 
complete  torpor  of  body  and  mind. 

He  did  not  realize  his  longing.  The  enchanting 
image  of  the  woodland  queen,  as  he  had  beheld  her  in 
the  dusky  light  of  the  charcoal-man's  hut,  was  ever  be- 
fore him.  He  put  his  hands  over  his  eyes.  She  was 
there  still,  with  her  deep,  dark  eyes  and  her  enticing 
cherry  lips.  Even  the  odor  of  the  honeysuckle  arising 
from  the  garden  assisted  the  reality  of  the  vision,  by 
recalling  the  sprig  of  the  same  flower  which  Reine  was 
twisting  round  her  fingers  at  their  last  interview.  This 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

sweet  breath  of  flowers  in  the  night  seemed  like  an 
emanation  from  the  young  girl  herself,  and  was  as  fleet- 
ing and  intangible  as  the  remembrance  of  vanished  hap- 
piness. Again  and  again  did  his  morbid  nature  return 
to  past  events,  and  make  his  present  position  more 
unbearable. 

"Why,"  thought  he,  "did  I  ever  entertain  so  wild  a 
hope  ?  This  wood-nymph,  with  her  robust  yet  graceful 
figure,  her  clear-headedness,  her  energy  and  will-power, 
could  she  ever  have  loved  a  being  so  weak  and  unstable 
as  myself?  No,  indeed;  she  needs  a  lover  full  of  life 
and  vigor;  a  huntsman,  with  a  strong  arm,  able  to  pro- 
tect her.  What  figure  should  I  cut  by  the  side  of  so 
hearty  and  well-balanced  a  fellow?" 

In  these  fits  of  jealousy,  he  was  not  so  angry  with 
Claudet  for  being  loved  by  Reine  as  for  having  so  care- 
fully concealed  his  feelings.  And  yet,  while  inwardly 
blaming  him  for  this  want  of  frankness,  he  did  not 
realize  that  he  himself  was  open  to  a  similar  accusa- 
tion, by  hiding  from  Claudet  what  was  troubling  him 
so  grievously. 

Since  the  evening  of  the  inauguration  festival,  he  had 
become  sullen  and  taciturn.  Like  all  timid  persons,  he 
took  refuge  in  a  moody  silence,  which  could  not  but 
irritate  his  cousin.  They  met  every  day  at  the  same 
table;  to  all  appearance  their  intimacy  was  as  great  as 
ever,  but,  in  reality,  there  was  no  mutual  exchange  of 
feeling.  Julien's  continued  ill-humor  was  a  source  of 
anxiety  to  Claudet,  who  turned  his  brain  almost  inside 
out  in  endeavoring  to  discover  its  cause.  He  knew  he 
had  done  nothing  to  provoke  any  coolness;  on  the  con- 

' 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

trary,  he  had  set  his  wits  to  work  to  show  his  gratitude 
by  all  sorts  of  kindly  offices. 

By  dint  of  thinking  the  matter  over,  Claudet  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  perhaps  Julien  was  beginning  to 
repent  of  his  generosity,  and  that  possibly  this  coolness 
was  a  roundabout  way  of  manifesting  his  change  of  feel- 
ing. This  seemed  to  be  the  only  plausible  solution  of 
his  cousin's  behavior.  "He  is  probably  tired,"  thought 
he,  "of  keeping  us  here  at  the  chateau,  my  mother  and 
myself." 

Claudet's  pride  and  self-respect  revolted  at  this  idea. 
He  did  not  intend  to  be  an  incumbrance  on  any  one,  and 
became  offended  in  his  turn  at  the  mute  reproach  which 
he  imagined  he  could  read  in  his  cousin's  troubled  coun- 
tenance. This  misconception,  confirmed  by  the  ob- 
stinate silence  of  both  parties,  and  aggravated  by  its 
own  continuance,  at  last  produced  a  crisis. 

It  happened  one  night,  after  they  had  taken  supper 
together,  and  Julien's  ill-humor  had  been  more  evident 
than  usual.  Provoked  at  his  persistent  taciturnity,  and 
more  than  ever  convinced  that  it  was  his  presence  that 
young  de  Buxieres  objected  to,  Claudet  resolved  to  force 
an  explanation.  Instead,  therefore,  of  quitting  the  din- 
ing-room after  dessert,  and  whistling  to  his  dog  to 
accompany  him  in  his  habitual  promenade,  the  grand 
chasserot  remained  seated,  poured  out  a  small  glass  of 
brandy,  and  slowly  filled  his  pipe.  Surprised  to  see  that 
he  was  remaining  at  home,  Julien  rose  and  began  to  pace 
the  floor,  wondering  what  could  be  the  reason  of  this 
unexpected  change.  As  suspicious  people  are  usually 
prone  to  attribute  complicated  motives  for  the  most 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


simple  actions,  he  imagined  that  Claudet,  becoming 
aware  of  the  jealous  feeling  he  had  excited,  had  given 
up  his  promenade  solely  to  mislead  and  avert  suspicion. 
This  idea  irritated  him  still  more,  and  halting  suddenly 
in  his  walk,  he  went  up  to  Claudet  and  said,  brusquely: 

"You  are  not  going  out,  then?" 

"No;"  replied  Claudet,  "if  you  will  permit  me,  I 
will  stay  and  keep  you  company.  Shall  I  annoy 
you?" 

"Not  in  the  least;  only,  as  you  are  accustomed  to 
walk  every  evening,  I  should  not  wish  you  to  incon- 
venience yourself  on  my  account.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
being  alone,  and  I  am  not  selfish  enough  to  deprive  you 
of  society  more  agreeable  than  mine." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  cried  Claudet,  prick- 
ing up  his  ears. 

"Nothing,"  muttered  Julien,  between  his  set  teeth, 
"except  that  your  fancied  obligation  of  keeping  me 
company  ought  not  to  prevent  you  missing  a  pleasant 
engagement,  or  keeping  a  rendezvous." 

"A  rendezvous,"  replied  his  interlocutor,  with  a  forced 
laugh,  "so  you  think,  when  I  go  out  after  supper,  I  go 
to  seek  amusement.  A  rendezvous!  And  with  whom, 
if  you  please?" 

"With  your  mistress,  of  course,"  replied  Julien,  sar- 
castically, "from  what  you  said  to  me,  there  is  no 
scarcity  here  of  girls  inclined  to  be  good-natured,  and 
you  have  only  the  trouble  of  choosing  among  them. 
I  supposed  you  were  courting  some  woodman's  young 
daughter,  or  some  pretty  farmer  girl,  like — like  Reine 
Vincart." 

[i35] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

"Reine  Vincart!"  repeated  Claudet,  sternly,  "what 
business  have  you  to  mix  up  her  name  with  those 
creatures  to  whom  you  refer?  Mademoiselle  Vincart," 
added  he,  "has  nothing  in  common  with  that  class, 
and  you  have  no  right,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  to  use 
her  name  so  lightly !" 

The  allusion  to  Reine  Vincart  had  agitated  Claudet 
to  such  a  degree  that  he  did  not  notice  that  Julien,  as 
he  pronounced  her  name,  was  as  much  moved  as  him- 
self. 

The  vehemence  with  which  Claudet  resented  the  in- 
sinuation increased  young  de  Buxieres's  irritation. 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  he,  laughing  scornfully,  "Reine  Vin- 
cart is  an  exceedingly  pretty  girl!" 

"She  is  not  only  pretty,  she  is  good  and  virtuous,  and 
deserves  to  be  respected." 

"How  you  uphold  her!  One  can  see  that  you  are 
interested  in  her." 

"I  uphold  her  because  you  are  unjust  toward  her. 
But  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  she  has  no  need  of 
any  one  standing  up  for  her — her  good  name  is  suffi- 
cient to  protect  her.  Ask  any  one  in  the  village — there 
is  but  one  voice  on  that  question." 

"Come,"  said  Julien,  huskily,  "confess  that  you  are 
in  love  with  her." 

"Well!  suppose  I  am,"  said  Claudet,  angrily,  "yes, 
I  love  her!  There,  are  you  satisfied  now?" 

Although  de  Buxifcres  knew  what  he  had  to  expect,  he 
was  not  the  less  affected  by  so  open  an  avowal  thrust  at 
him,  as  it  were.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  silent;  then, 
with  a  fresh  burst  of  rage: 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"  You  love  her,  do  you  ?  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  be- 
fore? Why  were  you  not  more  frank  with  me?" 

As  he  spoke,  gesticulating  furiously,  in  front  of  the 
open  window,  the  deep  red  glow  of  the  setting  sun, 
piercing  through  the  boughs  of  the  ash-trees,  threw  its 
bright  reflections  on  his  blazing  eyeballs  and  convulsed 
features.  His  interlocutor,  leaning  against  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  window-frame,  noticed,  with  some  anxiety, 
the  extreme  agitation  of  his  behavior,  and  wondered 
what  could  be  the  cause  of  such  emotion. 

"I?  Not  frank  with  you!  Ah,  that  is  a  good  joke, 
Monsieur  de  Buxieres!  Naturally,  I  should  not  go  pro- 
claiming on  the  housetops  that  I  have  a  tender  feeling 
for  Mademoiselle  Vincart,  but,  all  the  same,  I  should 
have  told  you  had  you  asked  me  sooner.  I  am  not 
reserved;  but,  you  must  excuse  my  saying  it,  you  are 
walled  in  like  a  subterranean  passage.  One  can  not  get 
at  the  color  of  your  thoughts.  I  never  for  a  moment 
imagined  that  you  were  interested  in  Reine,  and  you 
never  have  made  me  sufficiently  at  home  to  entertain 
the  idea  of  confiding  in  you  on  that  subject." 

Julien  remained  silent.  He  had  reseated  himself  at 
the  table,  where,  leaning  his  head  in  his  hands,  he  pon- 
dered over  what  Claudet  had  said.  He  placed  his  hand 
so  as  to  screen  his  eyes,  and  bit  his  lips  as  if  a  painful 
struggle  was  going  on  within  him.  The  splendors  of 
the  setting  sun  had  merged  into  the  dusky  twilight,  and 
the  last  piping  notes  of  the  birds  sounded  faintly  among 
the  sombre  trees.  A  fresh  breeze  had  sprung  up,  and 
filled  the  darkening  room  with  the  odor  of  honeysuckle. 

Under  the  soothing  influence  of  the  falling  night, 
[i37] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

Julien  slowly  raised  his  head,  and  addressing  Claudet  in 
a  low  and  measured  voice  like  a  father  confessor  inter- 
rogating a  penitent,  said : 

"Does  Reine  know  that  you  love  her?" 

"I  think  she  must  suspect  it,"  replied  Claudet,  "al- 
though I  never  have  ventured  to  declare  myself  squarely. 
But  girls  are  very  quick,  Reine  especially.  They  soon 
begin  to  suspect  there  is  some  love  at  bottom,  when  a 
young  man  begins  to  hang  around  them  too  frequently." 

"You  see  her  often,  then?" 

"Not  as  often  as  I  should  like.  But,  you  know,  when 
one  lives  in  the  same  district,  one  has  opportunities  of 
meeting — at  the  beech  harvest,  in  the  woods,  at  the 
church  door.  And  when  you  meet,  you  talk  but  little, 
making  the  most  of  your  time.  Still,  you  must  not  sup- 
pose, as  I  think  you  did,  that  we  have  rendezvous  in  the 
evening.  Reine  respects  herself  too  much  to  go  about 
at  night  with  a  young  man  as  escort,  and  besides,  she 
has  other  fish  to  fry.  She  has  a  great  deal  to  do  at  the 
farm,  since  her  father  has  become  an  invalid." 

"Well,  do  you  think  she  loves  you?"  said  Julien,  with 
a  movement  of  nervous  irritation. 

"I  can  not  tell,"  replied  Claudet  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, "she  has  confidence  in  me,  and  shows  me  some 
marks  of  friendship,  but  I  never  have  ventured  to  ask 
her  whether  she  feels  anything  more  than  friendship  for 
me.  Look  here,  now.  I  have  good  reasons  for  keeping 
back;  she  is  rich  and  I  am  poor.  You  can  understand 
that  I  would  not,  for  any  consideration,  allow  her  to 
think  that  I  am  courting  her  for  her  money " 

"Still,  you  desire  to  marry  her,  and  you  hope  that  she 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

will  not  say  no — you  acknowledge  that!"  cried  Julien, 
vociferously. 

Claudet,  struck  with  the  violence  and  bitterness  of 
tone  of  his  companion,  came  up  to  him. 

"How  angrily  you  say  that,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres!" 
exclaimed  he  in  his  turn;  "upon  my  word,  one  might 
suppose  the  affair  is  very  displeasing  to  you.  Will  you 
let  me  tell  you  frankly  an  idea  that  has  already  entered 
my  head  several  times  these  last  two  or  three  days,  and 
which  has  come  again  now,  while  I  have  been  listening 
to  you?  It  is  that  perhaps  you,  yourself,  are  also  in 
love  with  Reine?" 

"I!"  protested  Julien.  He  felt  humiliated  at  Clau- 
det's  perspicacity;  but  he  had  too  much  pride  and  self- 
respect  to  let  his  preferred  rival  know  of  his  unfortunate 
passion.  He  waited  a  moment  to  swallow  something  in 
his  throat  that  seemed  to  be  choking  him,  and  then, 
trying  in  vain  to  steady  his  voice,  he  added: 

"You  know  that  I  have  an  aversion  for  women;  and 
for  that  matter,  I  think  they  return  it  with  interest. 
But,  at  all  events,  I  am  not  foolish  enough  to  expose 
myself  to  their  rebuffs.  Rest  assured,  I  shall  not  follow 
at  your  heels!" 

Claudet  shook  his  head  incredulously. 

"You  doubt  it,"  continued  de  Buxieres;  "well,  I  will 
prove  it  to  you.  You  can  not  declare  your  wishes  be- 
cause Reine  is  rich  and  you  are  poor?  I  will  take 
charge  of  the  whole  matter." 

"I — I  do  not  understand  you,"  faltered  Claudet,  be- 
wildered at  the  strange  turn  the  conversation  was  tak- 
ing. 

[i39] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"You  will  understand — soon,"  asserted  Julien,  with  a 
gesture  of  both  decision  and  resignation. 

The  truth  was,  he  had  made  one  of  those  resolutions 
which  seem  illogical  and  foolish  at  first  sight,  but  are 
natural  to  minds  at  once  timid  and  exalted.  The  suffer- 
ing caused  by  Claudet's  revelations  had  become  so  acute 
that  he  was  alarmed.  He  recognized  with  dismay  the 
disastrous  effects  of  this  hopeless  love,  and  determined 
to  employ  a  heroic  remedy  to  arrest  its  further  ravages. 
This  was  nothing  less  than  killing  his  love,  by  imme- 
diately getting  Claudet  married  to  Reine  Vincart.  Sac- 
rifices like  this  are  easier  to  souls  that  have  been 
subjected  since  their  infancy  to  Christian  discipline,  and 
accustomed  to  consider  the  renunciation  of  mundane 
joys  as  a  means  of  securing  eternal  salvation.  As  soon 
as  this  idea  had  developed  in  Julien's  brain,  he  seized 
upon  it  with  the  precipitation  of  a  drowning  man,  who 
distractedly  lays  hold  of  the  first  object  that  seems  to 
offer  him  a  means  of  safety,  whether  it  be  a  dead  branch 
or  a  reed. 

"Listen,"  he  resumed;  "at  the  very  first  explanation 
that  we  had  together,  I  told  you  I  did  not  intend  to 
deprive  you  of  your  right  to  a  portion  of  your  natural 
father's  inheritance.  Until  now,  you  have  taken  my 
word  for  it,  and  we  have  lived  at  the  chateau  like  two 
brothers.  But  now  that  a  miserable  question  of  money 
alone  prevents  you  from  marrying  the  woman  you  love, 
it  is  important  that  you  should  be  legally  provided  for. 
We  will  go  to-morrow  to  Monsieur  Arbillot,  and  ask  him 
to  draw  up  the  deed,  making  over  to  you  from  me  one 
half  of  the  fortune  of  Claude  de  Buxieres.  You  will 

[140] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

then  be,  by  law,  and  in  the  eyes  of  all,  one  of  the  desira- 
ble matches  of  the  canton,  and  you  can  demand  the 
hand  of  Mademoiselle  Vincart,  without  any  fear  of 
being  thought  presumptuous  or  mercenary." 

Claudet,  to  whom  this  conclusion  was  wholly  unex- 
pected, was  thunderstruck.  His  emotion  was  so  great 
that  it  prevented  him  from  speaking.  In  the  obscurity 
of  the  room  his  deep-set  eyes  seemed  larger,  and  shone 
with  the  tears  he  could  not  repress. 

"Monsieur  Julien,"  said  he,  falteringly,  "I  can  not 
find  words  to  thank  you.  I  am  like  an  idiot.  And  to 
think  that  only  a  little  while  ago  I  suspected  you  of 
being  tired  of  me,  and  regretting  your  benefits  toward 
me!  What  an  animal  I  am!  I  measure  others  by  my- 
self. Well!  can  you  forgive  me?  If  I  do  not  express 
myself  well,  I  feel  deeply,  and  all  I  can  say  is  that  you 
have  made  me  very  happy ! "  He  sighed  heavily.  "  The 
question  is  now,"  continued  he,  "whether  Reine  will 
have  me!  You  may  not  believe  me,  Monsieur  de  Bux- 
ieres,  but  though  I  may  seem  very  bold  and  resolute, 
I  feel  like  a  wet  hen  when  I  get  near  her.  I  have  a 
dreadful  panic  that  she  will  send  me  away  as  I  came.  I 
don't  know  whether  I  can  ever  find  courage  to  ask  her." 

"Why  should  she  refuse  you?"  said  Julien,  sadly, 
"she  knows  that  you  love  her.  Do  you  suppose  she 
loves  any  one  else?" 

"That  I  don't  know.  Although  Reine  is  very  frank, 
she  does  not  let  every  one  know  what  is  passing  in  her 
mind,  and  with  these  young  girls,  I  tell  you,  one  is  never 
sure  of  anything.  That  is  just  what  I  fear  may  be 
possible." 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"If  you  fear  the  ordeal,"  said  de  Buxieres,  with  a 
visible  effort,  "would  you  like  me  to  present  the  matter 
for  you?" 

"I  should  be  very  glad.  It  would  be  doing  me  a 
great  service.  It  would  be  adding  one  more  kindness 
to  those  I  have  already  received,  and  some  day  I  hope 
to  make  it  all  up  to  you." 

The  next  morning,  according  to  agreement,  Julien 
accompanied  Claudet  to  Auberive,  where  Maitre  Arbil- 
lot  drew  up  the  deed  of  gift,  and  had  it  at  once  signed 
and  recorded.  Afterward  the  young  men  adjourned  to 
breakfast  at  the  inn.  The  meal  was  brief  and  silent. 
Neither  seemed  to  have  any  appetite.  As  soon  as  they 
had  drunk  their  coffee,  they  turned  back  on  the  Vivey 
road;  but,  when  they  had  got  as  far  as  the  great  lime- 
tree,  standing  at  the  entrance  to  the  forest,  Julien 
touched  Claudet  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "we  must  part  company.  You  will 
return  to  Vivey,  and  I  shall  go  across  the  fields  to  La 
Thuiliere.  I  shall  return  as  soon  as  I  have  had  an  inter- 
view with  Mademoiselle  Vincart.  Wait  for  me  at  the 
chateau." 

"The  time  will  seem  dreadfully  long  to  me,"  sighed 
Claudet;  "I  shall  not  know  how  to  dispose  of  my  body 
until  you  return." 

"Your  affair  will  be  all  settled  within  two  or  three 
hours  from  now.  Stay  near  the  window  of  my  room, 
and  you  will  catch  first  sight  of  me  coming  along  in  the 
distance.  If  I  wave  my  hat,  it  will  be  a  sign  that  I 
bring  a  favorable  answer." 

Claudet  pressed  his  hand;  they  separated,  and  Julien 
[142] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

descended  the  newly  mown  meadow,  along  which  he 
walked  under  the  shade  of  trees  scattered  along  the 
border  line  of  the  forest. 

The  heat  of  the  midday  sun  was  tempered  by  a  breeze 
from  the  east,  which  threw  across  the  fields  and  woods 
the  shadows  of  the  white  fleecy  clouds.  The  young 
man,  pale  and  agitated,  strode  with  feverish  haste  over 
the  short-cropped  grass,  while  the  little  brooklet  at  his 
side  seemed  to  murmur  a  flute-like,  soothing  accompani- 
ment to  the  tumultuous  beatings  of  his  heart.  He  was 
both  elated  and  depressed  at  the  prospect  of  submitting 
his  already  torn  and  lacerated  feelings  to  so  severe  a 
trial.  The  thought  of  beholding  Reine  again,  and  of 
sounding  her  feelings,  gave  him  a  certain  amount  of 
cruel  enjoyment.  He  would  speak  to  her  of  love — love 
for  another,  certainly — but  he  would  throw  into  the 
declaration  he  was  making,  in  behalf  of  another,  some 
of  his  own  tenderness;  he  would  have  the  supreme  and 
torturing  satisfaction  of  watching  her  countenance,  of 
anticipating  her  blushes,  of  gathering  the  faltering 
avowal  from  her  lips.  He  would  once  more  drink  of 
the  intoxication  of  her  beauty,  and  then  he  would  go 
and  shut  himself  up  at  Vivey,  after  burying  at  La  Thu- 
iliere  all  his  dreams  and  profane  desires.  But,  even 
while  the  courage  of  this  immolation  of  his  youthful  love 
was  strong  within  him,  he  could  not  prevent  a  dim  feel- 
ing of  hope  from  crossing  his  mind.  Claudet  was  not 
certain  that  he  was  beloved;  and  possibly  Reine's 
answer  would  be  a  refusal.  Then  he  should  have  a  free 
field. 

By  a  very  human,  but  very  illogical  impulse,  Julien 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

de  Buxferes  had  hardly  concluded  the  arrangement  with 
Claudet  which  was  to  strike  the  fatal  blow  to  his  own 
happiness  when  he  began  to  forestall  the  possibilities 
which  the  future  might  have  in  store  for  him.  The  odor 
of  the  wild  mint  and  meadow-sweet,  dotting  the  banks 
of  the  stream,  again  awoke  vague,  happy  anticipations. 
Longing  to  reach  Reine  Vincart's  presence,  he  hastened 
his  steps,  then  stopped  suddenly,  seized  with  an  over- 
powering panic.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  painful 
episode  in  the  hut,  and  it  must  have  left  with  her  a  very 
sorry  impression.  What  could  he  do,  if  she  refused  to 
receive  him  or  listen  to  him  ? 

While  revolving  these  conflicting  thoughts  in  his  mind, 
he  came  to  the  fields  leading  directly  to  La  Thuiliere, 
and  just  beyond,  across  a  waving  mass  of  oats  and  rye, 
the  shining  tops  of  the  farm-buildings  came  in  sight. 
A  few  minutes  later,  he  pushed  aside  a  gate  and  entered 
the  yard. 

The  shutters  were  closed,  the  outer  gate  was  closed 
inside,  and  the  house  seemed  deserted.  Julien  began 
to  think  that  the  young  girl  he  was  seeking  had  gone  into 
the  fields  with  the  farm-hands,  and  stood  uncertain  and 
disappointed  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard.  At  this 
sudden  intrusion  into  their  domain,  a  brood  of  chickens, 
who  had  been  clucking  sedately  around,  and  picking  up 
nourishment  at  the  same  time,  scattered  screaming  in 
every  direction,  heads  down,  feet  sprawling,  until  by 
unanimous  consent  they  made  a  bee-line  for  a  half-open 
door,  leading  to  the  orchard.  Through  this  manoeuvre, 
the  young  man's  attention  was  brought  to  the  fact  that 
through  this  opening  he  could  reach  the  rear  fayade  of 

[*44] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


the  building.  He  therefore  entered  a  grassy  lane,  wind- 
ing round  a  group  of  stones  draped  with  ivy ;  and  leaving 
the  orchard  on  his  left,  he  pushed  on  toward  the  garden 
itself — a  real  country  garden  with  square  beds  bordered 
by  mossy  clumps  alternating  with  currant-bushes,  rows 
of  raspberry-trees,  lettuce  and  cabbage  beds,  beans  and 
runners  climbing  up  their  slender  supports,  and,  here 
and  there,  bunches  of  red  carnations  and  peasant  roses. 

Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  a  long  avenue,  he  discovered 
Reine  Vincart,  seated  on  the  steps  before  an  arched  door, 
communicating  with  the  kitchen.  A  plum-tree,  loaded 
with  its  violet  fruit,  spread  its  light  shadow  over  the 
young  girl's  head,  as  she  sat  shelling  fresh-gathered  peas 
and  piling  the  faint  green  heaps  of  color  around  her. 
The  sound  of  approaching  steps  on  the  grassy  soil 
caused  her  to  raise  her  head,  but  she  did  not  stir.  In  his 
intense  emotion,  Julien  thought  the  alley  never  would 
come  to  an  end.  He  would  fain  have  cleared  it  with  ? 
single  bound,  so  as  to  be  at  once  in  the  presence  of  Made- 
moiselle Vincart,  whose  immovable  attitude  rendered 
his  approach  still  more  difficult.  Nevertheless,  he  had 
to  get  over  the  ground  somehow  at  a  reasonable  pace, 
under  penalty  of  making  himself  ridiculous,  and  he 
therefore  found  plenty  of  time  to  examine  Reine,  who 
continued  her  work  with  imperturbable  gravity,  throw- 
ing the  peas  as  she  shelled  them  into  an  ash-wood  pail 
at  her  feet. 

She  was  bareheaded,  and  wore  a  striped  skirt  and  a 

white  jacket  fitted  to  her  waist.  The  checkered  shadows 

cast  by  the  tree  made  spots  of  light  and  darkness  over 

her  face  and  her  uncovered  neck,  the  top  button  of  her 

10  i 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

camisole  being  unfastened  on  account  of  the  heat.  De 
Buxieres  had  been  perfectly  well  recognized  by  her,  but 
an  emotion,  at  least  equal  to  that  experienced  by  the 
young  man,  had  transfixed  her  to  the  spot,  and  a  subtle 
feminine  instinct  had  urged  her  to  continue  her  employ- 
ment, in  order  to  hide  the  sudden  trembling  of  her 
fingers.  During  the  last  month,  ever  since  the  adven- 
ture in  the  hut,  she  had  thought  often  of  Julien;  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  audacious  kiss  which  the  young  de 
Buxieres  had  so  impetuously  stolen  from  her  neck, 
invariably  brought  the  flush  of  shame  to  her  brow. 
But,  although  she  was  very  indignant  at  the  fiery  nature 
of  his  caress,  as  implying  a  want  of  respect  little  in 
harmony  with  Julien's  habitual  reserve,  she  was  aston- 
ished at  herself  for  not  being  still  more  angry.  At  first, 
the  affront  put  upon  her  had  roused  a  feeling  of  indig- 
nation, but  now,  when  she  thought  of  it,  she  felt  only  a 
gentle  embarrassment,  and  a  soft  beating  of  the  heart. 
She  began  to  reflect  that  to  have  thus  broken  loose  from 
all  restraint  before  her,  this  timid  youth  must  have  been 
carried  away  by  an  irresistible  burst  of  passion,  and  any 
woman,  however  high-minded  she  may  be,  will  forgive 
such  violent  homage  rendered  to  the  sovereign  power  of 
her  beauty.  Besides  his  feeding  of  her  vanity,  another 
independent  and  more  powerful  motive  predisposed  her 
to  indulgence:  she  felt  a  tender  and  secret  attraction 
toward  Monsieur  de  Buxieres.  This  healthy  and  ener- 
getic girl  had  been  fascinated  by  the  delicate  charm  of  a 
nature  so  unlike  her  own  in  its  sensitiveness  and  dis- 
position to  self-blame.  Julien's  melancholy  blue  eyes 
had,  unknown  to  himself,  exerted  a  magnetic  influence 

[146] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

on  Reine's  dark,  liquid  orbs,  and,  without  endeavoring 
to  analyze  the  sympathy  that  drew  her  toward  a  nature 
refined  and  tender  even  to  weakness,  without  asking 
herself  where  this  unreflecting  instinct  might  lead  her, 
she  was  conscious  of  a  growing  sentiment  toward  him, 
which  was  not  very  much  unlike  love  itself. 

Julien  de  Buxieres's  mood  was  not  sufficiently  calm  to 
observe  anything,  or  he  would  immediately  have  per- 
ceived the  impression  that  his  sudden  appearance  had 
produced  upon  Reine  Vincart.  As  soon  as  he  found 
himself  within  a  few  steps  of  the  young  girl,  he  saluted 
her  awkwardly,  and  she  returned  his  bow  with  marked 
coldness.  Extremely  disconcerted  at  this  reception,  he 
endeavored  to  excuse  himself  for  having  invaded  her 
dwelling  in  so  unceremonious  a  manner. 

"I  am  all  the  more  troubled,"  added  he,  humbly, 
"that  after  what  has  happened,  my  visit  must  appear 
to  you  indiscreet,  if  not  improper." 

Reine,  who  had  more  quickly  recovered  her  self- 
possession,  pretended  not  to  understand  the  unwise 
allusion  that  had  escaped  the  lips  of  her  visitor.  She 
rose,  pushed  away  with  her  foot  the  stalks  and  pods, 
which  encumbered  the  passage,  and  replied,  very 
shortly: 

"You  are  excused,  Monsieur.  There  is  no  need  of 
an  introduction  to  enter  La  Thuiliere.  Besides,  I  sup- 
pose that  the  motive  which  has  brought  you  here  can 
only  be  a  proper  one." 

While  thus  speaking,  she  shook  her  skirt  down,  and 
without  any  affectation  buttoned  up  her  camisole. 

"Certainly,  Mademoiselle,"  faltered  Julien,  "it  is  a 
[i47l 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

most  serious  and  respectable  motive  that  causes  me 
to  wish  for  an  interview,  and — if — I  do  not  disturb 
you " 

"Not  in  the  least,  Monsieur;  but,  if  you  wish  to  speak 
with  me,  it  is  unnecessary  for  you  to  remain  standing. 
Allow  me  to  fetch  you  a  chair." 

She  went  into  the  house,  leaving  the  young  man  over- 
whelmed with  the  coolness  of  his  reception;  a  few 
minutes  later  she  reappeared,  bringing  a  chair,  which 
she  placed  under  the  tree.  "  Sit  here,  you  will  be  in  the 
shade." 

She  seated  herself  on  the  same  step  as  before,  lean- 
ing her  back  against  the  wall,  and  her  head  on  her 
hand. 

"I  am  ready  to  listen  to  you,"  she  said. 

Julien,  much  less  under  his  own  control  than  she, 
discovered  that  his  mission  was  more  difficult  than  he 
had  imagined  it  would  be;  he  experienced  a  singular 
amount  of  embarrassment  in  unfolding  his  subject ;  and 
was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  prolonged  inquiries  con- 
cerning the  health  of  Monsieur  Vincart. 

"He  is  still  in  the  same  condition,"  said  Reine, 
"neither  better  nor  worse,  and,  with  the  illness  which 
afflicts  him,  the  best  I  can  hope  for  is  that  he  may  remain 
in  that  condition.  But,"  continued  she,  with  a  slight 
inflection  of  irony;  "doubtless  it  is  not  for  the  purpose 
of  inquiring  after  my  father's  health  that  you  have  come 
all  the  way  from  Vivey?" 

"That  is  true,  Mademoiselle,"  replied  he,  coloring. 
"What  I  have  to  speak  to  you  about  is  a  very  delicate 
matter.  You  will  excuse  me,  therefore,  if  I  am  some- 

[148] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

what  embarrassed.  I  beg  of  you,  Mademoiselle,  to 
listen  to  me  with  indulgence." 

"What  can  he  be  coining  to?"  thought  Reine,  won- 
dering why  he  made  so  many  preambles  before  begin- 
ning. And,  at  the  same  time,  her  heart  began  to  beat 
violently. 

Julien  took  the  course  taken  by  all  timid  people  after 
meditating  for  a  long  while  on  the  best  way  to  prepare 
the  young  girl  for  the  communication  he  had  taken 
upon  himself  to  make — he  lost  his  head  and  inquired 
abruptly: 

"Mademoiselle  Reine,  do  you  not  intend  to  marry?" 

Reine  started,  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  frightened 
air. 

"I!"  exclaimed  she,  "Oh,  I  have  time  enough  and  I 
am  not  in  a  hurry."  Then,  dropping  her  eyes:  "Why 
do  you  ask  that  ?" 

"Because  I  know  of  some  one  who  Joves  you  and 
who  would  be  glad  to  marry  you." 

She  became  very  pale,  took  up  one  of  the  empty  pods, 
twisted  it  nervously  around  her  finger  without  speak- 
ing. 

"Some  one  belonging  to  our  neighborhood?"  she 
faltered,  after  a  few  moments'  silence. 

"Yes;  some  one  whom  you  know,  and  who  is  not  a 
recent  arrival  here.  Some  one  who  possesses,  I  believe, 
sterling  qualities  sufficient  to  make  a  good  husband,  and 
means  enough  to  do  credit  to  the  woman  who  will  wed 
him.  Doubtless  you  have  already  guessed  to  whom  I 
refer?" 

She  sat  motionless,  her  lips  tightly  closed,  her  features 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

rigid,  but  the  nervous  twitching  of  her  fingers  as  she  bent 
the  green  stem  back  and  forth,  betrayed  her  inward 
agitation. 

"No;  I  can  not  tell,"  she  replied  at  last,  in  an  almost 
inaudible  voice. 

"Truly?"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  expression  of  aston- 
ishment, in  which  was  a  certain  amount  of  secret  satis- 
faction; "you  can  not  tell  whom  I  mean?  You  have 
never  thought  of  the  person  of  whom  I  am  speaking  in 
that  light?" 

"No;  who  is  that  person?" 

She  had  raised  her  eyes  toward  his,  and  they  shone 
with  a  deep,  mysterious  light. 

"It  is  Claudet  Sejournant,"  replied  Julien,  very 
gently,  and  in  an  altered  tone. 

The  glow  that  had  illumined  the  dark  orbs  of  the 
young  girl  faded  away,  her  eyelids  dropped,  and  her 
countenance  became  as  rigid  as  before;  but  Julien  did 
not  notice  anything.  The  words  he  had  just  uttered 
had  cost  him  too  much  agony,  and  he  dared  not  look  at 
his  companion,  lest  he  should  behold  her  joyful  surprise, 
and  thereby  aggravate  his  suffering. 

"Ah!"  said  Reine,  coldly,  "in  that  case,  why  did  not 
Claudet  come  himself  and  state  his  own  case?" 

"His  courage  failed  him  at  the  last  moment — and 

2  j 

"And  so,"  continued  she,  with  sarcastic  bitterness  of 
tone,  "you  took  upon  yourself  to  speak  for  him?" 

"Yes;  I  promised  him  I  would  plead  his  cause.  I 
was  sure,  moreover,  that  I  should  not  have  much  diffi- 
culty in  gaining  the  suit.  Claudet  has  loved  you  for  a 

[150] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


long  time.  He  is  good-hearted,  and  a  fine  fellow  to  look 
at.  And  as  to  worldly  advantages,  his  position  is  now 
equal  to  your  own.  I  have  made  over  to  him,  by  legal 
contract,  the  half  of  his  father's  estate.  What  answer 
am  I  to  take  back?" 

He  spoke  with  difficulty  in  broken  sentences,  without 
turning  his  eyes  toward  Mademoiselle  Vincart.  The 
silence  that  followed  his  last  question  seemed  to  him 
unbearable,  and  the  contrasting  chirping  of  the  noisy 
grasshoppers,  and  the  buzzing  of  the  flies  in  the  quiet 
sunny  garden,  resounded  unpleasantly  in  his  ears. 

Reine  remained  speechless.  She  was  disconcerted  and 
well-nigh  overpowered  by  the  unexpected  announce- 
ment, and  her  brain  seemed  unable  to  bear  the  crowd  of 
tumultuous  and  conflicting  emotions  which  presented 
themselves.  Certainly,  she  had  already  suspected  that 
Claudet  had  a  secret  liking  for  her,  but  she  never  had 
thought  of  encouraging  the  feeling.  The  avowal  of  his 
hopes  neither  surprised  nor  hurt  her;  that  which  pained 
her  was  the  intervention  of  Julien,  who  had  taken  in  hand 
the  cause  of  his  relative.  Was  it  possible  that  this  same 
M.  de  Buxieres,  who  had  made  so  audacious  a  display 
of  his  tender  feeling  in  the  hut,  could  now  come  forward 
as  Claudet's  advocate,  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  him  to  do?  In  that  case,  his 
astonishing  behavior  at  the  fete,  which  had  caused  her 
so  much  pain,  and  which  she  had  endeavored  to  excuse 
in  her  own  mind  as  the  untutored  outbreak  of  his  pent- 
up  love,  that  fiery  caress,  was  only  the  insulting  manifes- 
tation of  a  brutal  caprice  ?  The  transgressor  thought  so 
little  of  her,  she  was  of  such  small  importance  in  his 

[151 1 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

eyes,  that  he  had  no  hesitation  in  proposing  that  she 
marry  Claudet  ?  She  beheld  herself  scorned,  humiliated, 
insulted  by  the  only  man  in  whom  she  ever  had  felt 
interested.  In  the  excess  of  her  indignation  she  felt 
herself  becoming  hard-hearted  and  violent ;  a  profound 
discouragement,  a  stony  indifference  to  all  things,  im- 
pelled her  to  extreme  measures,  and,  not  being  able  at 
the  moment  to  find  any  one  on  whom  she  could  put 
them  in  operation,  she  was  almost  tempted  to  lay  vio- 
lent hands  on  herself. 

"What  shall  I  say  to  Claudet?"  repeated  Julien, 
endeavoring  to  conceal  the  suffering  which  was  devour- 
ing his  heart  by  an  assumption  of  outward  frigidity. 

She  turned  slowly  round,  fixed  her  searching  eyes, 
which  had  become  as  dark  as  waters  reflecting  a  stormy 
sky,  upon  his  face,  and  demanded,  in  icy  tones: 

"What  do  you  advise  me  to  say?" 

Now,  if  Julien  had  been  less  of  a  novice,  he  would 
have  understood  that  a  girl  who  loves  never  addresses 
such  a  question;  but  the  feminine  heart  was  a  book  in 
which  he  was  a  very  poor  speller.  He  imagined  that 
Reine  was  only  asking  him  as  a  matter  of  form,  and 
that  it  was  from  a  feeling  of  maidenly  reserve  that  she 
adopted  this  passive  method  of  escaping  from  openly 
declaring  her  wishes.  She  no  doubt  desired  his  friendly 
aid  in  the  matter,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  ought  to  grant  her 
that  satisfaction. 

"  I  have  the  conviction,"  stammered  he,  "  that  Claudet 
will  make  a  good  husband,  and  you  will  do  well  to  accept 
him." 

Reine  bit  her  lip,  and  her  paleness  increased  so  as  to 
[152] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

set  off  still  more  the  fervid  lustre  of  her  eyes.  The  two 
little  brown  moles  stood  out  more  visibly  on  her  white 
neck,  and  added  to  her  attractions. 

"So  be  it!"  exclaimed  she,  "tell  Claudet  that  I  con- 
sent, and  that  he  will  be  welcome  at  La  Thuiliere." 

"I  will  tell  him  immediately."  He  bent  gravely  and 
sadly  before  Reine,  who  remained  standing  and  motion- 
less against  the  door.  "Adieu,  Mademoiselle!" 

He  turned  away  abruptly;  plunged  into  the  first 
avenue  he  came  to,  lost  his  way  twice  and  finally  reached 
the  courtyard,  and  thence  escaped  at  breakneck  speed 
across  the  fields. 

Reine  maintained  her  statue-like  pose  as  long  as  the 
young  man's  footsteps  resounded  on  the  stony  paths; 
but  when  they  died  gradually  away  in  the  distance, 
when  nothing  could  be  heard  save  the  monotonous  trill 
of  the  grasshoppers  basking  in  the  sun,  she  threw  herself 
down  on  the  green  heap  of  rubbish ;  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  gave  way  to  a  passionate  outburst 
of  tears  and  sobs. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Julien  de  Buxieres,  angry  with 
himself,  irritated  by  the  speedy  success  of  his  mission, 
was  losing  his  way  among  the  pasturages,  and  getting 
entangled  in  the  thickets.  All  the  details  of  the  inter- 
view presented  themselves  before  his  mind  with  re- 
morseless clearness.  He  seemed  more  lonely,  more 
unfortunate,  more  disgusted  with  himself  and  with  all 
else  than  he  ever  had  been  before.  Ashamed  of  the 
wretched  part  he  had  just  been  enacting,  he  felt  almost 
childish  repugnance  to  returning  to  Vivey,  and  tried  to 
pick  out  the  paths  that  would  take  him  there  by  the 

[153] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

longest  way.  But  he  was  not  sufficiently  accustomed 
to  laying  out  a  route  for  himself,  and  when  he  thought 
he  had  a  league  farther  to  go,  and  had  just  leaped 
over  an  intervening  hedge,  the  pointed  roofs  of  the 
chateau  appeared  before  him  at  a  distance  of  not  more 
than  a  hundred  feet,  and  at  one  of  the  windows  on  the 
first  floor  he  could  distinguish  Claudet,  leaning  for 
ward,  as  if  to  interrogate  him. 

He  remembered  then  the  promise  he  had  made  the 
young  huntsman;  and  faithful  to  his  word,  although 
with  rage  and  bitterness  in  his  heart,  he  raised  his  hat, 
and  with  effort,  waved  it  three  times  above  his  head. 
At  this  signal,  the  forerunner  of  good  news,  Claudet 
replied  by  a  triumphant  shout,  and  disappeared  from 
the  window.  A  moment  later,  Julien  heard  the  noise 
of  furious  galloping  down  the  enclosures  of  the  park. 
It  was  the  lover,  hastening  to  learn  the  particulars  of 
the  interview. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   STRANGE,   DARK   SECRET 

:F  Julien  had  once  entertained  the  hope 
that  Claudet's  marriage  with  Reine 
would  act  as  a  kind  of  heroic  remedy 
for  the  cure  of  his  unfortunate  passion, 
he  very  soon  perceived  that  he  had 
been  wofully  mistaken.  As  soon  as 
he  had  informed  the  grand  chasserot 
of  the  success  of  his  undertaking,  he 
became  aware  that  his  own  burden  was  considerably 
heavier.  Certainly  it  had  been  easier  for  him  to  bear 
uncertainty  than  the  boisterous  rapture  evinced  by  his 
fortunate  rival.  His  jealousy  rose  against  it,  and  that 
was  all.  Now  that  he  had  torn  from  Reine  the  avowal 
of  her  love  for  Claudet,  he  was  more  than  ever  oppressed 
by  his  hopeless  passion,  and  plunged  into  a  condition  of 
complete  moral  and  physical  disintegration.  It  mingled 
with  his  blood,  his  nerves,  his  thoughts,  and  possessed 
him  altogether,  dwelling  within  him  like  an  adored  and 
tyrannical  mistress.  Reine  appeared  constantly  before 
him  as  he  had  contemplated  her  on  the  outside  steps  of 
the  farmhouse,  in  her  never-to-be-forgotten  negligee  of 
the  short  skirt  and  the  half-open  bodice.  He  again 
beheld  the  silken  treasure  of  her  tresses,  gliding  play- 
fully around  her  shoulders,  the  clear,  honest  look  of  her 


ANDRJE  THEURIET 

limpid  eyes,  the  expressive  smile  of  her  enchanting  lips, 
and  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  he  reflected  that 
perhaps  before  a  month  was  over,  all  these  charms  would 
belong  to  Claudet.  Then,  almost  at  the  same  moment, 
like  a  swallow,  whicn,  with  one  rapid  turn  of  its  wing, 
changes  its  course,  his  thoughts  went  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  he  began  to  imagine  what  would  have 
happened  if,  instead  of  replying  in  the  affirmative,  Reine 
had  objected  to  marrying  Claudet.  He  could  picture 
himself  kneeling  before  her  as  before  the  Madonna,  and 
in  a  low  voice  confessing  his  love.  He  would  have  taken 
her  hands  so  respectfully,  and  pleaded  so  eloquently, 
that  she  would  have  allowed  herself  to  be  convinced. 
The  little  hands  would  have  remained  prisoners  in  his 
own;  he  would  have  lifted  her  tenderly,  devotedly,  in 
his  arms,  and  under  the  influence  of  this  feverish  dream, 
he  fancied  he  could  feel  the  beating  heart  of  the  young 
girl  against  his  own  bosom.  Suddenly  he  would  wake 
up  out  of  his  illusions,  and  bite  his  lips  with  rage  on  find- 
ing himself  in  the  dull  reality  of  his  own  dwelling. 

One  day  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  gravel;  a  sonorous 
and  jovial  voice  met  his  ear.  It  was  Claudet,  starting 
for  La  Thuiliere.  Julien  bent  forward  to  see  him,  and 
ground  his  teeth  as  he  watched  his  joyous  departure. 
The  sharp  sting  of  jealousy  entered  his  soul,  and  he  re- 
belled against  the  evident  injustice  of  Fate.  How  had 
he  deserved  that  life  should  present  so  dismal  and  for- 
bidding an  aspect  to  him  ?  He  had  had  none  of  the  joys 
of  infancy;  his  youth  had  been  spent  wearily  under  the 
peevish  discipline  of  a  cloister;  he  had  entered  on  his 
young  manhood  with  all  the  awkwardness  and  timidity 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

of  a  night-bird  that  is  made  to  fly  in  the  day.  Up  to  the 
age  of  twenty-seven  years,  he  had  known  neither  love 
nor  friendship ;  his  time  had  been  given  entirely  to  earn- 
ing his  daily  bread,  and  to  the  cultivation  of  religious 
exercises,  which  consoled  him  in  some  measure  for  his 
apparently  useless  way  of  living.  Latterly,  it  is  true, 
Fortune  had  seemed  to  smile  upon  him,  by  giving  him 
a  little  more  money  and  liberty,  but  this  smile  was  a 
mere  mockery,  and  a  snare  more  hurtful  than  the  petti- 
nesses and  privations  of  his  past  life.  The  fickle  god- 
dess, continuing  her  part  of  mystifier,  had  opened  to  his 
enraptured  sight  a  magic  window  through  which  she  had 
shown  him  a  charming  vision  of  possible  happiness;  but 
while  he  was  still  gazing,  she  had  closed  it  abruptly  in 
his  face,  laughing  scornfully  at  his  discomfiture.  What 
sense  was  there  in  this  perversion  of  justice,  this  per- 
petual mockery  of  Fate  ?  At  times  the  influence  of  his 
early  education  would  resume  its  sway,  and  he  would 
ask  himself  whether  all  this  apparent  contradiction  were 
not  a  secret  admonition  from  on  high,  warning  him  that 
he  had  not  been  created  to  enjoy  the  fleeting  pleasures 
of  this  world,  and  ought,  therefore,  to  turn  his  attention 
toward  things  eternal,  and  renounce  the  perishable 
delights  of  the  flesh? 

"If  so,"  thought  he,  irreverently,  "the  warning  comes 
rather  late,  and  it  would  have  answered  the  purpose  bet- 
ter had  I  been  allowed  to  continue  in  the  narrow  way 
of  obscure  poverty!"  Now  that  the  enervating  influ- 
ence of  a  more  prosperous  atmosphere  had  weakened 
his  courage,  and  cooled  the  ardor  of  his  piety,  his  faith 
began  to  totter  like  an  old  wall.  His  religious  beliefs 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

seemed  to  have  been  wrecked  by  the  same  storm  which 
had  destroyed  his  passionate  hopes  of  love,  and  left 
him  stranded  and  forlorn  without  either  haven  or  pilot, 
blown  hither  and  thither  solely  by  the  violence  of  his 
passion. 

By  degrees  he  took  an  aversion  to  his  home,  and 
would  spend  entire  days  in  the  woods.  Their  secluded 
haunts,  already  colored  by  the  breath  of  autumn,  be- 
came more  attractive  to  him  as  other  refuge  failed  him. 
They  were  his  consolation;  his  doubts,  weakness,  and 
amorous  regrets,  found  sympathy  and  indulgence  under 
their  silent  shelter.  He  felt  less  lonely,  less  humiliated, 
less  prosaic  among  these  great  forest  depths,  these  lofty 
ash- trees,  raising  their  verdant  branches  to  heaven.  He 
found  he  could  more  easily  evoke  the  seductive  image  of 
Reine  Vincart  in  these  calm  solitudes,  where  the  recol- 
lections of  the  previous  springtime  mingled  with  the 
phantoms  of  his  heated  imagination  and  clothed  them- 
selves with  almost  living  forms.  He  seemed  to  see  the 
young  girl  rising  from  the  mists  of  the  distant  valleys. 
The  least  fluttering  of  the  leaves  heralded  her  fancied 
approach.  At  times  the  hallucination  was  so  complete 
that  he  could  see,  in  the  interlacing  of  the  branches,  the 
undulations  of  her  supple  form,  and  the  graceful  outlines 
of  her  profile.  Then  he  would  be  seized  by  an  insane 
desire  to  reach  the  fugitive  and  speak  to  her  once  more, 
and  would  go  tearing  along  the  brushwood  for  that  pur- 
pose. Now  and  then,  in  the  half  light  formed  by  the 
hanging  boughs,  he  would  see  rays  of  golden  light,  com- 
ing straight  down  to  the  ground,  and  resting  there  lightly 
like  diaphanous  apparitions.  Sometimes  the  rustling  of 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

birds  taking  flight,  would  sound  in  his  ears  like  the  timid 
jrou-jrou  of  a  skirt,  and  Julien,  fascinated  by  the  mys- 
terious charm  of  these  indefinite  objects,  and  following 
the  impulse  of  their  mystical  suggestions,  would  fling 
himself  impetuously  into  the  jungle,  repeating  to  him- 
self the  words  of  the  " Canticle  of  Canticles":  "I  hear 
the  voice  of  my  beloved;  behold!  she  cometh  leaping 
upon  the  mountains,  skipping  upon  the  hills."  He 
would  continue  to  press  forward  in  pursuit  of  the 
intangible  apparition,  until  he  sank  with  exhaustion 
near  some  stream  or  fountain.  Under  the  influence  of 
the  fever,  which  was  consuming  his  brain,  he  would 
imagine  the  trickling  water  to  be  the  song  of  a  feminine 
voice.  He  would  wind  his  arms  around  the  young  sap- 
lings, he  would  tear  the  berries  from  the  bushes,  press- 
ing them  against  his  thirsty  lips,  and  imagining  their 
odoriferous  sweetness  to  be  a  fond  caress  from  the 
loved  one. 

He  would  return  from  these  expeditions  exhausted  but 
not  appeased.  Sometimes  he  would  come  across  Clau- 
det,  also  returning  home  from  paying  his  court  to  Reine 
Vincart;  and  the  unhappy  Julien  would  scrutinize  his 
rival's  countenance,  seeking  eagerly  for  some  trace  of  the 
impressions  he  had  received  during  the  loving  interview. 
His  curiosity  was  nearly  always  baffled;  for  Claudet 
seemed  to  have  left  all  his  gayety  and  conversational 
powers  at  La  Thuiliere.  During  their  tete-a-tete  meals, 
he  hardly  spoke  at  all,  maintaining  a  reserved  attitude 
and  a  taciturn  countenance.  Julien,  provoked  at  this 
unexpected  sobriety,  privately  accused  his  cousin  of  dis- 
simulation, and  of  trying  to  conceal  his  happiness.  His 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

jealousy  so  blinded  him  that  he  considered  the  silence 
of  Claudet  as  pure  hypocrisy  not  recognizing  that 
it  was  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  some 
unpleasantness  rather  than  satisfaction. 

The  fact  was  that  Claudet,  although  rejoicing  at  the 
turn  matters  had  taken,  was  verifying  the  poet's  saying: 
"Never  is  perfect  happiness  our  lot."  When  Julien 
brought  him  the  good  news,  and  he  had  flown  so  joy- 
fully to  La  Thuiliere,  he  had  certainly  been  cordially 
received  by  Reine,  but,  nevertheless,  he  had  noticed 
with  surprise  an  absent  and  dreamy  look  in  her  eyes, 
which  did  not  agree  with  his  idea  of  a  first  interview  of 
lovers.  When  he  wished  to  express  his  affection  in  the 
vivacious  and  significant  manner  ordinarily  employed 
among  the  peasantry,  that  is  to  say,  by  vigorous  embrac- 
ing and  resounding  kisses,  he  met  with  unexpected 
resistance. 

"Keep  quiet!"  was  the  order,  "and  let  us  talk  ra- 
tionally!" 

He  obeyed,  although  not  agreeing  in  her  view  of  the 
reserve  to  be  maintained  between  lovers;  but,  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  return  to  the  charge  and  triumph  over 
her  bashful  scruples.  In  fact,  he  began  again  the  very 
next  day,  and  his  impetuous  ardor  encountered  the  same 
refusal  in  the  same  firm,  though  affectionate  manner. 
He  ventured  to  complain,  telling  Reine  that  she  did  not 
love  him  as  she  ought. 

"If  I  did  not  feel  friendly  toward  you,"  replied  the 
young  girl,  laconically,  "should  I  have  allowed  you  to 
talk  to  me  of  marriage?" 

Then,  seeing  that  he  looked  vexed  and  worried,  and 
[160] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

realizing  that  she  was  perhaps  treating  him  too  roughly, 
she  continued,  more  gently: 

"Remember,  Claudet,  that  I  am  living  all  alone  at 
the  farm.  That  obliges  me  to  have  more  reserve  than 
a  girl  whose  mother  is  with  her.  So  you  must  not  be 
offended  if  I  do  not  behave  exactly  as  others  might, 
and  rest  assured  that  it  will  not  prevent  me  from  being 
a  good  wife  to  you,  when  we  are  married. " 

"Well,  now,"  thought  Claudet,  as  he  was  returning 
despondently  to  Vivey:  "I  can't  help  thinking  that  a 
little  caress  now  and  then  wouldn't  hurt  any  one!" 

Under  these  conditions  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  he 
was  in  a  mood  to  relate  any  of  the  details  of  such 
meagre  love-making.  His  self-love  was  wounded  by 
Reine's  coldness.  Having  always  been  "  cock-of-the- 
walk,"  he  could  not  understand  why  he  had  such  poor 
success  with  the  only  one  about  whom  he  was  in  earnest. 
He  kept  quiet,  therefore,  hiding  his  anxiety  under  the 
mask  of  careless  indifference.  Moreover,  a  certain  prim- 
itive instinct  of  prudence  made  him  circumspect.  In 
his  innermost  soul,  he  still  entertained  doubts  of  Julien's 
sincerity.  Sometimes  he  doubted  whether  his  cousin's 
conduct  had  not  been  dictated  by  the  bitterness  of 
rejected  love,  rather  than  a  generous  impulse  of  affec- 
tion, and  he  did  not  care  to  reveal  Reine's  repulse  to  one 
whom  he  vaguely  suspected  of  being  a  former  lover. 
His  simple,  ardent  nature  could  not  put  up  with  opposi- 
tion, and  he  thought  only  of  hastening  the  day  when 
Reine  would  belong  to  him  altogether.  But,  when  he 
broached  this  subject,  he  had  the  mortification  to  find 
that  she  was  less  impatient  than  himself, 
ii  [ 161  ] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"There  is  no  hurry,"  she  replied,  "our  affairs  are  not 
in  order,  our  harvests  are  not  housed,  and  it  would  be 
better  to  wait  till  the  dull  season." 

In  his  first  moments  of  joy  and  effervescence,  Claudet 
had  evinced  the  desire  to  announce  immediately  the 
betrothal  throughout  the  village.  This  Reine  had  op- 
posed ;  she  thought  they  should  avoid  awakening  public 
curiosity  so  long  beforehand,  and  she  extracted  from 
Claudet  a  promise  to  say  nothing  until  the  date  of  the 
marriage  should  be  settled.  He  had  unwillingly  con- 
sented, and  thus,  during  the  last  month,  the  matter  had 
been  dragging  on  indefinitely. 

With  Julien  de  Buxieres,  this  interminable  delay, 
these  incessant  comings  and  goings  from  the  chateau  to 
the  farm,  as  well  as  the  mysterious  conduct  of  the  bride- 
groom-elect, became  a  subject  of  serious  irritation, 
amounting  almost  to  obsession.  He  would  have  wished 
the  affair  hurried  up,  and  the  sacrifice  consummated 
without  hindrance.  He  believed  that  when  once  the 
newly-married  pair  had  taken  up  their  quarters  at  La 
Thuiliere,  the  very  certainty  that  Reine  belonged  in 
future  to  another  would  suffice  to  effect  a  radical  cure 
in  him,  and  chase  away  the  deceptive  phantoms  by 
which  he  was  pursued. 

One  evening,  as  Claudet  was  returning  home,  more 
out  of  humor  and  silent  than  usual,  Julien  asked  him, 
abruptly : 

"Well!  how  are  you  getting  along?  When  is  the 
wedding?" 

"Nothing  is  decided  yet,"  replied  Claudet,  "we  have 
time  enough!" 

[  162  ] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"You  think  so?"  exclaimed  de  Buxieres,  sarcas- 
tically; "you  have  considerable  patience  for  a  lover !" 

The  remark  and  the  tone  provoked  Claudet. 

"The  delay  is  not  of  my  making,"  returned  he. 

"Ah!"  replied  the  other,  quickly,  "then  it  comes  from 
Mademoiselle  Vincart?"  And  a  sudden  gleam  came 
into  his  eyes,  as  if  Claudet's  assertion  had  kindled  a 
spark  of  hope  in  his  breast.  The  latter  noticed  the 
momentary  brightness  in  his  cousin's  usually  stormy 
countenance,  and  hastened  to  reply: 

"Nay,  nay;  we  both  think  it  better  to  postpone  the 
wedding  until  the  harvest  is  in." 

"You  are  wrong.  A  wedding  should  not  be  post- 
poned. Besides,  this  prolonged  love-making,  these 
daily  visits  to  the  farm — all  that  is  not  very  proper.  It 
is  compromising  for  Mademoiselle  Vincart!" 

Julien  shot  out  these  remarks  with  a  degree  of  fierce- 
ness and  violence  that  astonished  Claudet. 

"You  think,  then,"  said  he,  "that  we  ought  to  rush 
matters,  and  have  the  wedding  before  winter?" 

"Undoubtedly!" 

The  next  day,  at  La  Thuiliere,  the  grand  chasserot, 
as  he  stood  in  the  orchard,  watching  Reine  spread  linen 
on  the  grass,  entered  bravely  on  the  subject. 

"Reine,"  said  he,  coaxingly,  "I  think  we  shall  have 
to  decide  upon  a  day  for  our  wedding." 

She  set  down  the  watering-pot  with  which  she  was 
wetting  the  linen,  and  looked  anxiously  at  her  betrothed. 

"  I  thought  we  had  agreed  to  wait  until  the  later  sea- 
son. Why  do  you  wish  to  change  that  arrangement?" 

"That  is  true;  I  promised  not  to  hurry  you,  Reine, 
[163] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

but  it  is  beyond  me  to  wait — you  must  not  be  vexed  with 
me  if  I  find  the  time  long.  Besides,  they  know  nothing, 
around  the  village,  of  our  intentions,  and  my  coming 
here  every  day  might  cause  gossip  and  make  it  unpleas- 
ant for  you.  At  any  rate,  that  is  the  opinion  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Buxieres,  with  whom  I  was  conferring  only 
yesterday  evening/' 

At  the  name  of  Julien,  Reine  frowned  and  bit  her  lip. 

"Aha!"  said  she,  "it  is  he  who  has  been  advising 
you?" 

"Yes;  he  says  the  sooner  we  are  married,  the  better 
it  will  be." 

"Why  does  he  interfere  in  what  does  not  concern 
him?"  said  she,  angrily,  turning  her  head  away.  She 
stood  a  moment  in  thought,  absently  pushing  forward 
the  roll  of  linen  with  her  foot.  Then,  shrugging  her 
shoulders  and  raising  her  head,  she  said  slowly,  while 
still  avoiding  Claudet's  eyes: 

"Perhaps  you  are  right — both  of  you.  Well,  let  it 
be  so!  I  authorize  you  to  go  to  Monsieur  le  Cure  and 
arrange  the  day  with  him." 

"Oh,  thanks,  Reine!"  exclaimed  Claudet,  raptur- 
ously; "you  make  me  very  happy!" 

He  pressed  her  hands  in  his,  but  though  absorbed  in 
his  own  joyful  feelings,  he  could  not  help  remarking  that 
the  young  girl  was  trembling  in  his  grasp.  He  even 
fancied  that  there  was  a  suspicious,  tearful  glitter  in  her 
brilliant  eyes. 

He  left  her,  however,  and  repaired  at  once  to  the 
cure's  house,  which  stood  near  the  chateau,  a  little 
behind  the  church. 

[164] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

The  servant  showed  him  into  a  small  garden  separa- 
ted by  a  low  wall  from  the  cemetery.  He  found  the 
Abbe  Pernot  seated  on  a  stone  bench,  sheltered  by  a 
trellised  vine.  He  was  occupied  in  cutting  up  pieces 
of  hazel-nuts  to  make  traps  for  small  birds. 

"Good-evening,  Claudet!"  said  the  cure,  without 
moving  from  his  work;  "you  find  me  busy  preparing 
my  nets;  if  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  continue,  for  I 
should  like  to  have  my  two  hundred  traps  finished  by 
this  evening.  The  season  is  advancing,  you  know! 
The  birds  will  begin  their  migrations,  and  I  should  be 
greatly  provoked  if  I  were  not  equipped  in  time  for  the 
opportune  moment.  And  how  is  Monsieur  de  Bux- 
iferes  ?  I  trust  he  will  not  be  less  good-natured  than  his 
deceased  cousin,  and  that  he  will  allow  me  to  spread  my 
snares  on  the  border  hedge  of  his  woods.  But,"  added 
he,  as  he  noticed  the  flurried,  impatient  countenance  of 
his  visitor,  "I  forgot  to  ask  you,  my  dear  young  fellow, 
to  what  happy  chance  I  owe  your  visit  ?  Excuse  my 
neglect!" 

"Don't  mention  it,  Monsieur  le  Cure*.  You  have 
guessed  rightly.  It  is  a  very  happy  circumstance  which 
brings  me.  I  am  about  to  marry." 

"Aha!"  laughed  the  Abbe,  "I  congratulate  you,  my 
dear  young  friend.  This  is  really  delightful  news.  It 
is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,  and  I  am  glad  to  know 
you  must  give  up  the  perilous  life  of  a  bachelor.  Well, 
tell  me  quickly  the  name  of  your  betrothed.  Do  I 
know  her?" 

"  Of  course  you  do,  Monsieur  le  Cure ;  there  are  few 
you  know  so  well.  It  is  Mademoiselle  Vincart." 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"Reine?" 

The  Abbe  flung  away  the  priming-knife  and  branch 
that  he  was  cutting,  and  gazed  at  Claudet  with  a  stupefied 
air.  At  the  same  time,  his  jovial  face  became  shadowed, 
and  his  mouth  assumed  an  expression  of  consternation. 

"Yes,  indeed,  Reine  Vincart,"  repeated  Claudet, 
somewhat  vexed  at  the  startled  manner  of  his  reverence ; 
"are  you  surprised  at  my  choice ?" 

"Excuse  me — and — is  it  all  settled?"  stammered  the 
Abbe,  with  bewilderment,  "  and — and  do  you  really  love 
each  other?" 

" Certainly;  we  agree  on  that  point;  and  I  have  come 
here  to  arrange  with  you  about  having  the  banns  pub- 
lished." 

"What!  already?"  murmured  the  cure,  buttoning 
and  unbuttoning  the  top  of  his  coat  in  his  agitation, 
"you  seem  to  be  in  a  great  hurry  to  go  to  work.  The 
union  of  the  man  and  the  woman — ahem — is  a  serious 
matter,  which  ought  not  to  be  undertaken  without  due 
consideration.  That  is  the  reason  why  the  Church  has 
instituted  the  sacrament  of  marriage.  Hast  thou  well 
considered,  my  son?" 

"Why,  certainly,  I  have  reflected,"  exclaimed  Claudet 
with  some  irritation,  "and  my  mind  is  quite  made  up. 
Once  more,  I  ask  you,  Monsieur  leOure,  are  you  dis- 
pleased with  my  choice,  or  have  you  anything  to  say 
against  Mademoiselle  Vincart?" 

"  I  ?  no,  absolutely  nothing.  Reine  is  an  exceedingly 
good  girl." 

"Well,  then?" 

"Well,  my  friend,  I  will  go  over  to-morrow  and  see 
[166] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

your  fiancee,  and  we  will  talk  matters  over.  I  shall  act 
for  the  best,  in  the  interests  of  both  of  you,  be  assured 
of  that.  In  the  meantime,  you  will  both  be  united  this 
evening  in  my  prayers;  but,  for  to-day,  we  shall  have 
to  stop  where  we  are.  Good-evening,  Claudet !  I  will 
see  you  again." 

With  these  enigmatic  words,  he  dismissed  the  young 
lover,  who  returned  to  the  chateau,  vexed  and  disturbed 
by  his  strange  reception. 

The  moment  the  door  of  the  presbytery  had  closed 
behind  Claudet,  the  Abbe  Pernot,  flinging  to  one  side 
all  his  preparations,  began  to  pace  nervously  up  and 
down  the  principal  garden- walk.  He  appeared  com- 
pletely unhinged.  His  features  were  drawn,  through  an 
unusual  tension  of  ideas  forced  upon  him.  He  had  hur- 
riedly caught  his  skull-cap  from  his  head,  as  if  he  feared 
the  heat  of  his  meditation  might  cause  a  rush  of  blood  to 
the  head.  He  quickened  his  steps,  then  stopped  sud- 
denly, folded  his  arms  with  great  energy,  then  opened 
them  again  abruptly  to  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets 
of  his  gown,  searching  through  them  with  feverish 
anxiety,  as  if  he  expected  to  find  something  which  might 
solve  obscure  and  embarrassing  questions. 

"  Good  Lord !  Good  Lord !  What  a  dreadful  piece 
of  business;  and  right  in  the  bird  season,  too!  But  I 
can  say  nothing  to  Claudet.  It  is  a  secret  that  does  not 
belong  to  me.  How  can  I  get  out  of  it?  Tutt!  tutt! 
tutt!" 

These  monosyllabic  ejaculations  broke  forth  like  the 
vexed  clucking  of  a  frightened  blackbird;  after  which 
relief,  the  Abbe  resumed  his  fitful  striding  up  and  down 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

the  box-bordered  alley.  This  lasted  until  the  hour  of 
twilight,  when  Augustine,  the  servant,  as  soon  as  the 
Angelus  had  sounded,  went  to  inform  her  master  that 
they  were  waiting  prayers  for  him  in  the  church.  He 
obeyed  the  summons,  although  in  a  somewhat  absent 
mood,  and  hurried  over  the  services  in  a  manner  which 
did  not  contribute  to  the  edification  of  the  assistants. 
As  soon  as  he  got  home,  he  ate  his  jupper  without  appe- 
tite, mumbled  his  prayers,  and  shut  himself  up  in  the 
room  he  used  as  a  study  and  workshop.  He  remained 
there  until  the  night  was  far  advanced,  searching  through 
his  scanty  library  to  find  two  dusty  volumes  treating  of 
"cases  of  conscience,"  which  he  looked  eagerly  over  by 
the  feeble  light  of  his  study  lamp.  During  this  laborious 
search  he  emitted  frequent  sighs,  and  only  left  off  read- 
ing occasionally  in  order  to  dose  himself  plentifully  with 
snuff.  At  last,  as  he  felt  that  his  eyes  were  becoming 
inflamed,  his  ideas  conflicting  in  his  brain,  and  as  his 
lamp  was  getting  low,  he  decided  to  go  to  bed.  But  he 
slept  badly,  turned  over  at  least  twenty  times,  and  was 
up  with  the  first  streak  of  day  to  say  his  mass  in  the 
chapel.  He  officiated  with  more  dignity  and  piety  than 
was  his  wont;  and  after  reading  the  second  gospel  he 
remained  for  a  long  while  kneeling  on  one  of  the  steps 
of  the  altar.  After  he  had  returned  to  the  sacristy,  he 
divested  himself  quickly  of  his  sacerdotal  robes,  reached 
his  room  by  a  passage  of  communication,  breakfasted 
hurriedly,  and  putting  on  his  three-cornered  hat,  and 
seizing  his  knotty,  cherry-wood  cane,  he  shot  out  of 
doors  as  if  he  had  been  summoned  to  a  fire. 
Augustine,  amazed  at  his  precipitate  departure,  went 
[168] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

up  to  the  attic,  and,  from  behind  the  shelter  of  the  sky- 
light, perceived  her  master  striding  rapidly  along  the 
road  to  Planche-au-Vacher.  There  she  lost  sight  of 
him — the  underwood  was  too  thick.  But,  after  a  few 
minutes,  the  gaze  of  the  inquisitive  woman  was  re- 
warded by  the  appearance  of  a  dark  object  emerging 
from  the  copse,  and  defining  itself  on  the  bright  pasture 
land  beyond.  "Monsieur  le  Cure  is  going  to  La 
Thuiliere,"  thought  she,  and  with  this  half-satisfaction 
she  descended  to  her  daily  occupations. 

It  was  true,  the  Abbe  Pernot  was  walking,  as  fast  as 
he  could,  to  the  Vincart  farm,  as  unmindful  of  the 
dew  that  tarnished  his  shoe-buckles  as  of  the  thorns 
which' attacked  his  calves.  He  had  that  within  him 
which  spurred  him  on,  and  rendered  him  unconscious 
of  the  accidents  on  his  path.  Never,  during  his  twenty- 
five  years  of  priestly  office,  had  a  more  difficult  question 
embarrassed  his  conscience.  The  case  was  a  grave  one, 
and  moreover,  so  urgent  that  the  Abbe*  was  quite  at  a 
loss  how  to  proceed.  How  was  it  that  he  never  had 
foreseen  that  such  a  combination  of  circumstances 
might  occur  ?  A  priest  of  a  more  fervent  spirit,  who  had 
the  salvation  of  his  flock  more  at  heart,  could  not  have 
been  taken  so  unprepared.  Yes;  that  was  surely  the 
cause!  The  profane  occupations  in  which  he  had  al- 
lowed himself  to  take  so  much  enjoyment,  had  distracted 
his  watchfulness  and  obscured  his  perspicacity.  Provi- 
dence was  now  punishing  him  for  his  lukewarmness,  by 
interposing  across  his  path  this  stumbling-block,  which 
was  probably  sent  to  him  as  a  salutary  warning,  but 
which  he  saw  no  way  of  getting  over. 

[169] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

While  he  was  thus  meditating  and  reproaching  him- 
self, the  thrushes  were  calling  to  one  another  from  the 
branches  of  their  favorite  trees;  whole  flights  of  yellow- 
hammers  burst  forth  from  the  hedges  red  with  haws; 
but  he  took  no  heed  of  them  and  did  not  even  give  a 
single  thought  to  his  neglected  nests  and  snares. 

He  went  straight  on,  stumbling  over  the  juniper 
bushes,  and  wondering  what  he  should  say  when  he 
reached  the  farm,  and  how  he  should  begin.  Some- 
times he  addressed  himself,  thus:  "Have  I  the  right 
to  speak?  What  a  revelation!  And  to  a  young  girl! 
Oh,  Lord,  lead  me  in  the  straight  way  of  thy  truth,  and 
instruct  me  in  the  right  path!" 

As  he  continued  piously  repeating  this  verse  of  the 
Psalmist,  in  order  to  gain  spiritual  strength,  the  gray 
roofs  of  La  Thuiliere  rose  before  him;  he  could  hear 
the  crowing  of  the  cocks  and  the  lowing  of  the  cows  in 
the  stable.  Five  minutes  after,  he  had  pushed  open  the 
door  of  the  kitchen  where  La  Guite  was  arranging  the 
bowls  for  breakfast. 

"Good-morning,  Guitiote,"  said  he,  in  a  choking 
voice;  "is  Mademoiselle  Vincart  up?" 

"Holy  Virgin!  Monsieur  le  Cure!  Why,  certainly 
Mademoiselle  is  up.  She  was  on  foot  before  any  of  us, 
and  now  she  is  trotting  around  the  orchard.  I  will  go 
fetch  her." 

"No,  do  not  stir.  I  know  the  way,  and  I  will  go  and 
find  her  myself." 

She  was  in  the  orchard,  was  she?  The  Abbe  pre- 
ferred it  should  be  so;  he  thought  the  interview  would 
be  less  painful,  and  that  the  surrounding  trees  would 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


give  him  ideas.  He  walked  across  the  kitchen,  de- 
scended the  steps  leading  from  the  ground  floor  to  the 
garden,  and  ascended  the  slope  in  search  of  Reine, 
whom  he  soon  perceived  in  the  midst  of  a  bower  formed 
by  clustering  filbert-trees. 

At  sight  of  the  cure,  Reine  turned  pale;  he  had 
doubtless  come  to  tell  her  the  result  of  his  interview 
with  Claudet,  and  what  day  had  been  definitely  chosen 
for  the  nuptial  celebration.  She  had  been  troubled  all 
night  by  the  reflection  that  her  fate  would  soon  be 
irrevocably  sealed;  she  had  wept,  and  her  eyes  betrayed 
it.  Only  the  day  before,  she  had  looked  upon  this 
project  of  marriage,  which  she  had  entertained  in  a 
moment  of  anger  and  injured  feeling,  as  a  vague  thing, 
a  vaporous  eventuality  of  which  the  realization  was 
doubtful;  now,  all  was  arranged,  settled,  cruelly  certain; 
there  was  no  way  of  escaping  from  a  promise  which 
Claudet,  alas!  was  bound  to  consider  a  serious  one. 
These  thoughts  traversed  her  mind,  while  the  cure  was 
slowly  approaching  the  filbert- trees;  she  felt  her  heart 
throb,  and  her  eyes  again  filled  with  tears.  Yet  her 
pride  would  not  allow  that  the  Abbe  should  witness  her 
irresolution  and  weeping;  she  made  an  effort,  overcame 
the  momentary  weakness,  and  addressed  the  priest  in 
an  almost  cheerful  voice: 

"Monsieur  le  Cure,  I  am  sorry  that  they  have  made 
you  come  up  this  hill  to  find  me.  Let  us  go  back  to  the 
farm,  and  I  will  offer  you  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"No,  my  child,"  replied  the  Abbe,  motioning  with  his 
hand  that  she  should  stay  where  she  was,  "no,  thank 
you !  I  will  not  take  anything.  Remain  where  you  are. 


ANDRE  THEUIRET 

I  wish  to  talk  to  you,  and  we  shall  be  less  liable  to  be 
disturbed  here." 

There  were  two  rustic  seats  under  the  nut-trees;  the 
cure  took  one  and  asked  Reine  to  take  the  other,  oppo- 
site to  him.  There  they  were,  under  the  thick,  verdant 
branches,  hidden  from  indiscreet  passers-by,  surrounded 
by  silence,  installed  as  in  a  confessional. 

The  morning  quiet,  the  solitude,  the  half  light,  all 
invited  meditation  and  confidence;  nevertheless  the 
young  girl  and  the  priest  sat  motionless;  both  agitated 
and  embarrassed  and  watching  each  other  without 
uttering  a  sound.  It  was  Reine  who  first  broke  the 
silence. 

"You  have  seen  Claudet,  Monsieur  le  Cure?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  replied  the  Abbe,  sighing  deeply. 

"He — spoke  to  you  of  our — plans,"  continued  the 
young  girl,  in  a  quavering  voice,  "and  you  fixed  the 
day?" 

"No,  my  child,  we  settled  nothing.  I  wanted  to  see 
you  first,  and  converse  with  you  about  something  very 
important." 

The  Abbe  hesitated,  rubbed  a  spot  of  mud  off  his 
soutane,  raised  his  shoulders  like  a  man  lifting  a  heavy 
burden,  then  gave  a  deep  cough. 

"My  dear  child,"  continued  he  at  length,  prudently 
dropping  his  voice  a  tone  lower,  "I  will  begin  by  repeat- 
ing to  you  what  I  said  yesterday  to  Claudet  Sejournant : 
the  marriage,  that  is  to  say,  the  indissoluble  union,  of 
man  and  woman  before  God,  is  one  of  the  most  solemn 
and  serious  acts  of  life.  The  Church  has  constituted 
it  a  sacrament,  which  she  administers  only  on  certain 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

C 

formal  conditions.  Before  entering  into  this  bond,  one 
ought,  as  we  are  taught  by  Holy  Writ,  to  sound  the  heart, 
subject  the  very  inmost  of  the  soul  to  searching  exami- 
nations. I  beg  of  you,  therefore,  answer  my  questions 
freely,  without  false  shame,  just  as  if  you  were  at  the 
tribunal  of  repentance.  Do  you  love  Claudet?" 

Reine  trembled.  This  appeal  to  her  sincerity  re- 
newed all  her  perplexities  and  scruples.  She  raised  her 
full,  glistening  eyes  to  the  cure,  and  replied,  after  a 
slight  hesitation: 

"I  have  a  sincere  affection  for  Claudet — and — much 
esteem." 

"I  understand  that,"  replied  the  priest,  compressing 
his  lips,  "but — excuse  me  if  I  press  the  matter — has  the 
engagement  you  have  made  with  him  been  determined 
simply  by  considerations  of  affection  and  suitableness, 
or  by  more  interior  and  deeper  feelings?" 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  le  Cure," returned  Reine,  color- 
ing, "it  seems  to  me  that  a  sentiment  of  friendship, 
joined  to  a  firm  determination  to  prove  a  faithful  and 
devoted  wife,  should  be,  in  your  eyes  as  they  are  in  mine, 
a  sufficient  assurance  that " 

"Certainly,  certainly,  my  dear  child;  and  many  hus- 
bands would  be  contented  with  less.  However,  it  is  not 
only  a  question  of  Claudefs  happiness,  but  of  yours  also. 
Come  now !  let  me  ask  you :  is  your  affection  for  young 
Sejournant  so  powerful  that  in  the  event  of  any  unfore- 
seen circumstance  happening,  to  break  off  the  marriage, 
you  would  be  forever  unhappy?" 

"Ah!"  replied  Reine,  more  embarrassed  than  ever, 
"  you  ask  too  grave  a  question,  Monsieur  le  Cure !  If  it 


ANDK£  THEURIET 

were  broken  off  without  my  having  to  reproach  myself 
for  it,  it  is  probable  that  I  should  find  consolation  in 
time." 

"  Very  good !  Consequently,  you  do  not  love  Claudet, 
if  I  may  take  the  word  love  in  the  sense  understood  by 
people  of  the  world.  You  only  like,  you  do  not  love 
him?  Tell  me.  Answer  frankly." 

"Frankly,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  no!" 

" Thanks  be  to  God!  We  are  saved!"  exclaimed  the 
Abbe,  drawing  a  long  breath,  while  Reine,  amazed, 
gazed  at  him  with  wondering  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  faltered  she ;  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"It  is  this:  the  marriage  can  not  take  place." 

"Cannot?  why?" 

"It  is  impossible,  both  in  the  eyes  of  the  Church  and 
in  those  of  the  world." 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  with  increasing  amaze- 
ment. 

' '  You  alarm  me ! "  cried  she.  ' '  What  has  happened  ? 
What  reasons  hinder  me  from  marrying  Claudet?" 

"  Very  powerful  reasons,  my  dear  child.  I  do  not  feel 
at  liberty  to  reveal  them  to  you,  but  you  must  know  that 
I  am  not  speaking  without  authority,  and  that  you  may 
rely  on  the  statement  I  have  made." 

Reine  remained  thoughtful,  her  brows  knit,  her  coun- 
tenance troubled. 

"I  have  every  confidence  in  you,  Monsieur  le  Cure, 
but " 

"But  you  hesitate  about  believing  me,"  interrupted 
the  Abbe,  piqued  at  not  finding  in  one  of  his  flock  the 
blind  obedience  on  which  he  had  reckoned.  "  You  must 

[i74] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

know,  nevertheless,  that  your  pastor  has  no  interest  in 
deceiving  you,  and  that  when  he  seeks  to  influence  you, 
he  has  in  view  only  your  well-being  in  this  world  and  in 
the  next." 

"I  do  not  doubt  your  good  intentions,"  replied  Reine, 
with  firmness,  "but  a  promise  can  not  be  annulled  with- 
out sufficient  cause.  I  have  given  my  word  to  Claudet, 
and  I  am  too  loyal  at  heart  to  break  faith  with  him  with- 
out letting  him  know  the  reason." 

"You  will  find  some  pretext." 

"And  supposing  that  Claudet  would  be  content  with 
such  a  pretext,  my  own  conscience  would  not  be,"  ob- 
jected the  young  girl,  raising  her  clear,  honest  glance 
toward  the  priest;  "your  words  have  entered  my  soul, 
they  are  troubling  me  now,  and  it  will  be  worse  when  I 
begin  to  think  this  matter  over  again.  I  can  not  bear 
uncertainty.  I  must  see  my  way  clearly  before  me.  I 
entreat  you  then,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  not  to  do  things  by 
halves.  You  have  thought  it  your  duty  to  tell  me  I  can 
not  wed  with  Claudet;  now  tell  me  why  not?" 

"Why  not?  why  not?"  repeated  the  Abbe,  angrily. 
"I  distress  myself  in  telling  you  that  I  am  not  author- 
ized to  satisfy  your  unwise  curiosity!  You  must  hum- 
ble your  intelligence  and  believe  without  arguing." 

"In  matters  of  faith,  that  may  be  possible,"  urged 
Reine,  obstinately,  "but  my  marriage  has  nothing  to  do 
with  discussing  the  truths  of  our  holy  religion.  I  there- 
fore respectfully  ask  to  be  enlightened,  Monsieur  le 
Cure;  otherwise " 

"Otherwise?"  repeated  the  Abb6  Pernot,  inquiringly, 
rolling  his  eyes  uneasily. 


ANDRfe  THEURIET 

"Otherwise,  I  shall  keep  my  word  respectably,  and  I 
shall  marry  Claudet." 

"You  will  not  do  that?"  said  he,  imploringly,  joining 
his  hands  as  if  in  supplication;  "after  being  openly 
warned  by  me,  you  dare  not  burden  your  soul  with  such 
a  terrible  responsibility.  Come,  my  child,  does  not  the 
possibility  of  committing  a  mortal  sin  alarm  your  con- 
science as  a  Christian?" 

"  I  can  not  sin  if  I  am  in  ignorance,  and  as  to  my  con- 
science, Monsieur  le  Cure,  do  you  think  it  is  acting  like 
a  Christian  to  alarm  without  enlightening?" 

"Is  that  your  last  word?"  inquired  the  Abbe,  com- 
pletely aghast. 

"it  is  my  last  word,"  she  replied,  vehemently,  moved 
both  by  a  feeling  of  self-respect,  and  a  desire  to  force  the 
hand  of  her  interlocutor. 

"You  are  a  proud,  obstinate  girl!"  exclaimed  the 
Abbe*,  rising  abruptly,  "you  wish  to  compel  me  to  re- 
veal this  secret!  Well,  have  your  way!  I  will  tell  you. 
May  the  harm  which  may  result  from  it  fall  lightly  upon 
you,  and  do  not  hereafter  reproach  me  for  the  pain  I  am 
about  to  inflict  upon  you." 

He  checked  himself  for  a  moment,  again  joined  his 
hands,  and  raising  his  eyes  toward  heaven  ejaculated 
fervently,  as  if  repeating  his  devotions  in  the  oratory: 
"O  Lord,  thou  knowest  I  would  have  spared  her  this 
bitter  cup,  but,  between  two  evils,  I  have  avoided  the 
greater.  If  I  forfeit  my  solemn  promise,  consider,  O 
Lord,  I  pray  thee,  that  I  do  it  to  avoid  disgrace  and 
exposure  for  her,  and  deign  to  forgive  thy  servant!" 

He  seated  himself  again,  placed  one  of  his  hands  be- 
[176] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

fore  his  eyes,  and  began,  in  a 'hollow  voice,  Reine,  all 
the  while  gazing  nervously  at  him: 

"My  child,  you  are  forcing  me  to  violate  a  secret 
which  has  been  solemnly  confided  to  me.  It  concerns 
a  matter  not  usually  talked  about  before  young  girls, 
but  you  are,  I  believe,  already  a  woman  in  heart  and 
understanding,  and  you  will  hear  resignedly  what  I  have 
to  tell  you,  however  much  the  recital  may  trouble  you. 
I  have  already  informed  you  that  your  marriage  with 
Claudet  is  impossible.  I  now  declare  that  it  would  be 
criminal,  for  the  reason  that  incest  is  an  abomination." 

"Incest!"  repeated  Reine,  pale  and  trembling,  "what 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  sighed  the  cure,  "that  you  are  Claudet's 
sister,  not  having  the  same  mother,  but  the  same  father: 
Claude-Odouart  de  Buxieres." 

"Oh!  you  are  mistaken!  that  can  not  be!" 

"I  am  stating  facts.  It  grieves  me  to  the  heart,  my 
dear  child,  that  in  speaking  of  your  deceased  mother, 
I  should  have  to  reveal  an  error  over  which  she  lamented, 
like  David,  with  tears  of  blood.  She  confessed  her  sin, 
not  to  the  priest,  but  to  a  friend,  a  few  days  before  her 
death.  In  justice  to  her  memory,  I  ought  to  add  that, 
like  most  of  the  unfortunates  seduced  by  this  untama- 
ble de  Buxieres,  she  succumbed  to  his  wily  misrepre- 
sentations. She  was  a  victim  rather  than  an  accom- 
plice. The  man  himself  acknowledged  as  much  in  a 
note  entrusted  to  my  care,  which  I  have  here." 

And  the  Abbe  drew  from  his  pocket  an  old,  worn 
letter,  the  writing  yellow  with  age,  and  placed  it  before 
Reine.  In  this  letter,  written  in  Claude  de  Buxieres's 
12  [177] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

coarse,  sprawling  hand,  doubtless  in  reply  to  a  reproach- 
ful appeal  from  his  mistress,  he  endeavored  to  offer  some 
kind  of  honorable  amends  for  the  violence  he  had  used, 
and  to  calm  Madame  Vincart's  remorse  by  promising, 
as  was  his  custom,  to  watch  over  the  future  of  the  child 
which  should  be  born  to  her. 

"That  child  was  yourself,  my  poor  girl/'  continued 
the  Abbe,  picking  up  the  letter  which  Reine  had  thrown 
down,  after  reading  it,  with  a  gesture  of  sickened  dis- 
gust. 

She  appeared  not  to  hear  him.  She  had  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  to  hide  the  flushing  of  her  cheeks, 
and  sat  motionless,  altogether  crushed  beneath  the 
shameful  revelation;  convulsive  sobs  and  tremblings 
occasionally  agitating  her  frame. 

"You  can  now  understand,"  continued  the  priest, 
"how  the  announcement  of  this  projected  marriage 
stunned  and  terrified  me.  I  could  not  confide  to 
Claudet  the  reason  for  my  stupefaction,  and  I  should 
have  been  thankful  if  you  could  have  understood  so 
that  I  could  have  spared  you  this  cruel  mortification, 
but  you  would  not  take  any  intimation  from  me.  And 
now,  forgive  me  for  inflicting  this  cross  upon  you,  and 
bear  it  with  courage,  with  Christian  fortitude." 

"You  have  acted  as  was  your  duty,"  murmured 
Reine,  sadly,  "and  I  thank  you,  Monsieur  le  Cure!" 

"And  will  you  promise  me  to  dismiss  Claudet  at  once 
—to-day  ?'[ 

"I  promise  you." 

The  Abbe  Pernot  advanced  to  take  her  hand,  and 
administer  some  words  of  consolation ;  but  she  evaded, 

[178] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


with  a  stern  gesture,  the  good  man's  pious  sympathy, 
and  escaped  toward  the  dwelling. 

The  spacious  kitchen  was  empty  when  she  entered. 
The  shutters  had  been  closed  against  the  sun,  and  it 
had  become  cool  and  pleasant.  Here  and  there,  among 
the  copper  utensils,  and  wherever  a  chance  ray  made  a 
gleam  of  light,  the  magpie  was  hopping  about,  uttering 
short,  piercing  cries.  In  the  recess  of  the  niche  con- 
taining the  colored  prints,  sat  the  old  man  Vincart,  doz- 
ing, in  his  usual  supine  attitude,  his  hands  spread  out, 
his  eyelids  drooping,  his  mouth  half  open.  At  the  sound 
of  the  door,  his  eyes  opened  wide.  He  rather  guessed 
at,  than  saw,  the  entrance  of  the  young  girl,  and  his 
pallid  lips  began  their  accustomed  refrain:  "Reine! 
Rei— eine!" 

Reine  flew  impetuously  toward  the  paralytic  old  man, 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  him,  sobbing  bitterly, 
and  covered  his  hands  with  kisses.  Her  caresses  were 
given  in  a  more  respectful,  humble,  contrite  manner 
than  ever  before. 

"Oh!  father— father!"  faltered  she;  "I  loved  you 
always,  I  shall  love  you  now  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul!" 


[i79] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LOVE'S   SAD  ENDING 

[E  kitchen  was  bright  with  sunshine, 
and  the  industrious  bees  were  buzzing 
around  the  flowers  on  the  window-sills, 
while  Reine  was  listlessly  attending  to 
culinary  duties,  and  preparing  her 
father's  meal.  The  humiliating  dis- 
closures made  by  the  Abbe  Pernot 
weighed  heavily  upon  her  mind.  She 
foresaw  that  Claudet  would  shortly  be  at  La  Thuiliere 
in  order  to  hear  the  result  of  the  cure's  visit ;  but  she  did 
not  feel  sufficiently  mistress  of  herself  to  have  a  decisive 
interview  with  him  at  such  short  notice,  and  resolved  to 
gain  at  least  one  day  by  absenting  herself  from  the  farm. 
It  seemed  to  her  necessary  that  she  should  have  that 
length  of  time  to  arrange  her  ideas,  and  evolve  some  way 
of  separating  Claudet  and  herself  without  his  suspecting 
the  real  motive  of  rupture.  So,  telling  La  Guite  to  say 
that  unexpected  business  had  called  her  away,  she  set 
out  for  the  woods  of  Maigrefontaine. 

Whenever  she  had  felt  the  need  of  taking  counsel  with 
herself  before  deciding  on  any  important  matter,  the 
forest  had  been  her  refuge  and  her  inspiration.  The 
refreshing  solitude  of  the  valleys,  watered  by  living 
streams,  acted  as  a  strengthening  balm  to  her  irresolute 

[180] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

will ;  her  soul  inhaled  the  profound  peace  of  these  leafy 
retreats.  By  the  time  she  had  reached  the  inmost  shade 
of  the  forest  her  mind  had  become  calmer,  and  better 
able  to  unravel  the  confusion  of  thoughts  that  surged 
like  troubled  waters  through  her  brain.  The  dominant 
idea  was,  that  her  self-respect  had  been  wounded;  the 
shock  to  her  maidenly  modesty,  and  the  shame  attendant 
upon  the  fact,  affected  her  physically,  as  if  she  had  been 
belittled  and  degraded  by  a  personal  stain;  and  this 
downfall  caused  her  deep  humiliation.  By  slow  degrees, 
however,  and  notwithstanding  this  state  of  abject  de- 
spair, she  felt,  cropping  up  somewhere  in  her  heart,  a 
faint  germ  of  gladness,  and,  by  close  examination,  dis- 
covered its  origin :  she  was  now  loosed  from  her  obliga- 
tions toward  Claudet,  and  the  prospect  of  being  once 
more  free  afforded  her  immediate  consolation. 

She  had  so  much  regretted,  during  the  last  few  weeks, 
the  feeling  of  outraged  pride  which  had  incited  her  to 
consent  to  this  marriage;  her  loyal,  sincere  nature  had 
revolted  at  the  constraint  she  had  imposed  upon  herself; 
her  nerves  had  been  so  severely  taxed  by  having  to 
receive  her  fiance  with  sufficient  warmth  to  satisfy  his 
expectations,  and  yet  not  afford  any  encouragement  to 
his  demonstrative  tendencies,  that  the  certainty  of  her 
newly  acquired  freedom  created  a  sensation  of  relief  and 
well-being.  But,  hardly  had  she  analyzed  and  acknowl- 
edged this  sensation  when  she  reproached  herself  for 
harboring  it  when  she  was  about  to  cause  Claudet  such 
affliction. 

Poor  Claudet !  what  a  cruel  blow  was  in  store  for  him ! 
He  was  so  guilelessly  in  love,  and  had  such  unbounded 

[181] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

confidence  in  the  success  of  his  projects!  Reine  was 
overcome  by  tender  reminiscences.  She  had  always  ex- 
perienced, as  if  divining  by  instinct  the  natural  bonds 
which  united  them,  a  sisterly  affection  for  Claudet. 
Since  their  earliest  infancy,  at  the  age  when  they  learned 
their  catechism  under  the  church  porch,  they  had  been 
united  in  a  bond  of  friendly  fellowship.  With  Reine, 
this  tender  feeling  had  always  remained  one  of  friend- 
ship, but,  with  Claudet,  it  had  ripened  into  love;  and 
now,  after  allowing  the  poor  young  fellow  to  believe  that 
his  love  was  reciprocated,  she  was  forced  to  disabuse 
him.  It  was  useless  for  her  to  try  to  find  some  way  of 
softening  the  blow;  there  was  none.  Claudet  was  too 
much  in  love  to  remain  satisfied  with  empty  words;  he 
would  require  solid  reasons;  and  the  only  conclusive  one 
which  would  convince  him,  without  wounding  his  self- 
love,  was  exactly  the  one  which  the  young  girl  could  not 
give  him.  She  was,  therefore,  doomed  to  send  Claudet 
away  with  the  impression  that  he  had  been  jilted  by  a 
heartless  and  unprincipled  coquette.  And  yet  some- 
thing must  be  done.  The  grand  chasserot  had  been  too 
long  already  in  the  toils;  there  was  something  barbar- 
ously cruel  in  not  freeing  him  from  his  illusions. 

In  this  troubled  state  of  mind,  Reine  gazed  appeal- 
ingly  at  the  silent  witnesses  of  her  distress.  She  heard 
a  voice  within  her  saying  to  the  tall,  vaulted  ash,  "In- 
spire me!"  to  the  little  rose-colored  centaurea  of  the 
wayside,  "Teach  me  a  charm  to  cure  the  harm  I  have 
done ! "  But  the  woods,  which  in  former  days  had  been 
her  advisers  and  instructors,  remained  deaf  to  her  invo- 
cation. For  the  first  time,  she  felt  herself  isolated  and 

[i83] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

abandoned  to  her  own  resources,  even  in  the  midst  of 
her  beloved  forest. 

It  is  when  we  experience  these  violent  mental  crises, 
that  we  become  suddenly  conscious  of  Nature's  cold 
indifference  to  our  sufferings.  She  really  is  nothing 
more  than  the  reflex  of  our  own  sensations,  and  can  only 
give  us  back  what  we  lend  her.  Beautiful  but  selfish, 
she  allows  herself  to  be  courted  by  novices,  but  presents 
a  freezing,  emotionless  aspect  to  those  who  have  out- 
lived their  illusions. 

Reine  did  not  reach  home  until  the  day  had  begun  to 
wane.  La  Guite  informed  her  that  Claudet  had  waited 
for  her  during  part  of  the  afternoon,  and  that  he  would 
come  again  the  next  day  at  nine  o'clock.  Notwithstand- 
ing her  bodily  fatigue,  she  slept  uneasily,  and  her  sleep 
was  troubled  by  feverish  dreams.  Every  time  she  closed 
her  eyes,  she  fancied  herself  conversing  with  Claudet, 
and  woke  with  a  start  at  the  sound  of  his  angry  voice. 

She  arose  at  dawn,  descended  at  once  to  the  lower 
floor,  to  get  through  her  morning  tasks,  and  as  soon  as 
the  big  kitchen  clock  struck  nine,  she  left  the  house  and 
took  the  path  by  which  Claudet  would  come.  A  feeling 
of  delicate  consideration  toward  her  lover  had  impelled 
her  to  choose  for  her  explanation  any  other  place  than 
the  one  where  she  had  first  received  his  declaration  of 
love,  and  consented  to  the  marriage.  Very  soon  he 
came  in  sight,  his  stalwart  figure  outlined  against  the 
gray  landscape.  He  was  walking  rapidly;  her  heart 
smote  her,  her  hands  became  like  ice,  but  she  sum- 
moned all  her  fortitude,  and  went  bravely  forward  to 
meet  him. 

[183] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

When  he  came  within  forty  or  fifty  feet,  he  recognized 
Reine,  and  took  a  short  cut  across  the  stubble  studded 
with  cobwebs  glistening  with  dew. 

"Aha!  my  Reine,  my  queen,  good-morning!"  cried 
he,  joyously,  "it  is  sweet  of  you  to  come  to  meet  me!" 

"Good-morning,  Claudet.  I  came  to  meet  you  be- 
cause I  wish  to  speak  with  you  on  matters  of  importance, 
and  I  preferred  not  to  have  the  conversation  take  place 
in  our  house.  Shall  we  walk  as  far  as  the  Planche-au- 
Vacher?" 

He  stopped  short,  astonished  at  the  proposal  and  also 
at  the  sad  and  resolute  attitude  of  his  betrothed.  He 
examined  her  more  closely,  noticed  her  deep-set  eyes, 
her  cheeks,  whiter  than  usual. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Reine?"  he  inquired; 
"you  are  not  yourself;  do  you  not  feel  well?" 

"Yes,  and  no.  I  have  passed  a  bad  night,  thinking 
over  matters  that  are  troubling  me,  and  I  think  that  has 
produced  some  fever." 

"  What  matters  ?    Any  that  concern  us  ?  " 

"Yes;"  replied  she,  laconically. 

Claudet  opened  his  eyes.  The  young  girl's  continued 
gravity  began  to  alarm  him ;  but,  seeing  that  she  walked 
quickly  forward,  with  an  absent  air,  her  face  lowered, 
her  brows  bent,  her  mouth  compressed,  he  lost  courage 
and  refrained  from  asking  her  any  questions.  They 
walked  on  thus  in  silence,  until  they  came  to  the  open 
level  covered  with  juniper-bushes,  from  which  solitary 
place,  surrounded  by  hawthorn  hedges,  they  could  trace 
the  narrow  defile  leading  to  Vivey,  and  the  faint  mist 
beyond. 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"Let  us  stop  here,"  said  Reine,  seating  herself  on  a 
flat,  mossy  stone,  "we  can  talk  here  without  fear  of  being 
disturbed." 

"No  fear  of  that,"  remarked  Claudet,  with  a  forced 
smile,  "with  the  exception  of  the  shepherd  of  Vivey, 
who  comes  here  sometimes  with  his  cattle,  we  shall  not 
see  many  passers-by.  It  must  be  a  secret  that  you  have 
to  tell  me,  Reine?"  he  added. 

"No;"  she  returned,  "but  I  foresee  that  my  words 
will  give  you  pain,  my  poor  Claudet,  and  I  prefer  you 
should  hear  them  without  being  annoyed  by  the  farm- 
people  passing  to  and  fro." 

"Explain  yourself!"  he  exclaimed,  impetuously. 
"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  keep  me  in  suspense!" 

"Listen,  Claudet.  When  you  asked  my  hand  in  mar- 
riage, I  answered  yes,  without  taking  time  to  reflect. 
But,  since  I  have  been  thinking  over  our  plans,  I  have 
had  scruples.  My  father  is  becoming  every  day  more 
of  an  invalid,  and  in  his  present  state  I  really  have  no 
right  to  live  for  any  one  but  him.  One  would  think  he 
was  aware  of  our  intentions,  for  since  you  have  been 
visiting  at  the  farm,  he  is  more  agitated  and  suffers 
more.  I  think  that  any  change  in  his  way  of  living 
would  bring  on  a  stroke,  and  I  never  should  forgive 
myself  if  I  thought  I  had  shortened  his  life.  That  is  the 
reason  why,  as  long  as  I  have  him  with  me,  I  do  not  see 
that  it  will  be  possible  for  me  to  dispose  of  myself.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  do  not  wish  to  abuse  your  patience. 
I  therefore  ask  you  to  take  back  your  liberty  and  give 
me  back  my  promise." 

"That  is  to  say,  you  won't  have  me!"  he  exclaimed. 
[185] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"No;  my  poor  friend,  it  means  only  that  I  shall  not 
marry  so  long  as  my  father  is  living,  and  that  I  can  not 
ask  you  to  wait  until  I  am  perfectly  free.  Forgive  me 
for  having  entered  into  the  engagement  too  carelessly, 
and  do  not  on  that  account  take  your  friendship  from 


me." 


"Reine,"  interrupted  Claudet,  angrily,  "don't  turn 
your  brain  inside  out  to  make  me  believe  that  night  is 
broad  day.  I  am  not  a  child,  and  I  see  very  well  that 
your  father's  health  is  only  a  pretext.  You  don't  want 
me,  that's  all,  and,  with  all  due  respect,  you  have 
changed  your  mind  very  quickly !  Only  the  day  before 
yesterday  you  authorized  me  to  arrange  about  the  day 
for  the  ceremony  with  the  Abbe  Pernot.  Now  that  you 
have  had  a  visit  from  the  cure,  you  want  to  put  the  affair 
off  until  the  week  when  two  Sundays  come  together! 
I  am  a  little  curious  to  know  what  that  confounded  old 
abbe  has  been  babbling  about  me,  to  turn  you  inside 
out  like  a  glove  in  such  a  short  time." 

Claudet' s  conscience  reminded  him  of  several  rare 
frolics,  chance  love-affairs,  meetings  in  the  woods,  and 
so  on,  and  he  feared  the  priest  might  have  told  Reine 
some  unfavorable  stories  about  him.  "Ah!"  he  con- 
tinued, clenching  his  fists,  "if  this  old  poacher  in  a  cas- 
sock has  done  me  an  ill  turn  with  you,  he  will  not  have 
much  of  a  chance  for  paradise!" 

"Undeceive  yourself,"  said  Reine,  quickly,  "Mon- 
sieur le  Cure  is  your  friend,  like  myself;  he  esteems 
you  highly,  and  never  has  said  anything  but  good  of 
you." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  sneered  the  young  man,  "as  you  are 
[186] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

both  so  fond  of  me,  how  does  it  happen  that  you  have 
given  me  my  dismissal  the  very  day  after  your  interview 
with  the  cure?" 

Reine,  knowing  Claudet's  violent  disposition,  and 
wishing  to  avoid  trouble  for  the  cure,  thought  it  advis- 
able to  have  recourse  to  evasion. 

" Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  she,  "has  had  no  part  in  my 
decision.  He  has  not  spoken  against  you,  and  deserves 
no  reproaches  from  you." 

"In  that  case,  why  do  you  send  me  away?" 

"I  repeat  again,  the  comfort  and  peace  of  my  father 
are  paramount  with  me,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  marry 
so  long  as  he  may  have  need  of  me." 

"Well,"  said  Claudet,  persistently,  "I  love  you,  and 
I  will  wait." 

"It  cannot  be." 

"Why?" 

"Because,"  replied  she,  sharply,  "because  it  would 
be  kind  neither  to  you,  nor  to  my  father,  nor  to  me. 
Because  marriages  that  drag  along  in  that  way  are 
never  good  for  anything!" 

"Those  are  bad  reasons!"  he  muttered,  gloomily. 

"Good  or  bad,"  replied  the  young  girl,  "they  appear 
valid  to  me,  and  I  hold  to  them." 

"Reine,"  said  he,  drawing  near  to  her  and  looking 
straight  into  her  eyes,  "can  you  swear,  by  the  head  of 
your  father,  that  you  have  given  me  the  true  reason  for 
your  rejecting  me?" 

She  became  embarrassed,  and  remained  silent. 

"See!"  heexclaimed,  "you  dare  not  take  the  oath!" 

"My  word  should  suffice,"  she  faltered. 
[187] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

"No;  it  does  not  suffice.  But  your  silence  says  a 
great  deal,  I  tell  you!  You  are  too  frank,  Reine,  and 
you  don't  know  how  to  lie.  I  read  it  in  your  eyes,  I  do. 
The  true  reason  is  that  you  do  not  love  me." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  away  her 
head. 

"No,  you  do  not  love  me.  If  you  had  any  love  for 
me,  instead  of  discouraging  me,  you  would  hold  out 
some  hope  to  me,  and  advise  me  to  have  patience. 
You  never  have  loved  me,  confess  now!" 

By  dint  of  this  persistence,  Reine  by  degrees  lost  her 
self-confidence.  She  could  realize  how  much  Claudet 
was  suffering,  and  she  reproached  herself  for  the  torture 
she  was  inflicting  upon  him.  Driven  into  a  corner,  and 
recognizing  that  the  avowal  he  was  asking  for  was  the 
only  one  that  would  drive  him  away,  she  hesitated  no 
longer. 

"Alas!"  she  murmured,  lowering  her  eyes,  "since  you 
force  me  to  tell  you  some  truths  that  I  would  rather  have 
kept  from  you,  I  confess  you  have  guessed.  I  have  a 
sincere  friendship  for  you,  but  that  is  all.  I  have  con- 
cluded that  to  marry  a  person  one  ought  to  love  him 
differently,  more  than  everything  else  in  the  world,  and 
I  feel  that  my  heart  is  not  turned  altogether  toward 
you.*' 

"No,"  said  Claudet,  bitterly,  "it  is  turned  else- 
where." 

"What  do  you  mean?     I  do  not  understand  you." 

"I  mean  that  you  love  some  one  else." 

"That  is  not  true,"  she  protested. 

"You  are  blushing — a  proof  that  I  have  hit  the  nail!" 
[188] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

C 

"Enough  of  this!"  cried  she,  imperiously. 
.     "You  are  right.    Now  that  you  have  said  you  don't 
want  me  any  longer,  I  have  no  right  to  ask  anything 
further.     Adieu!" 

He  turned  quickly  on  his  heel.  Reine  was  conscious 
of  having  been  too  hard  with  him,  and  not  wishing  him 
to  go  away  with  such  a  grief  in  his  heart,  she  sought  to 
retain  him  by  placing  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Come,  Claudet,"  said  she,  entreatingly,  "do  not  let 
us  part  in  anger.  It  pains  me  to  see  you  suffer,  and  I 
am  sorry  if  I  have  said  anything  unkind  to  you.  Give 
me  your  hand  in  good  fellowship,  will  you?" 

But  Claudet  drew  back  with  a  fierce  gesture,  and 
glancing  angrily  at  Reine,  he  replied,  rudely: 

"Thanks  for  your  regrets  and  your  pity;  I  have  no 
use  for  them."  She  understood  that  he  was  deeply 
hurt;  gave  up  entreating,  and  turned  away  with  eyes 
full  of  tears. 

He  remained  motionless,  his  arms  crossed,  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  After  some  minutes,  he  turned  his 
head.  Reine  was  already  nothing  more  than  a  dark 
speck  against  the  gray  of  the  increasing  fog.  Then  he 
went  off,  haphazard,  across  the  pasture-lands.  The 
fog  was  rising  slowly,  and  the  sun,  shorn  of  its  beams, 
showed  its  pale  face  faintly  through  it.  To  the  right 
and  the  left,  the  woods  were  half  hidden  by  moving 
white  billows,  and  Claudet  walked  between  fluid  walls 
of  vapor.  This  hidden  sky,  these  veiled  surroundings, 
harmonized  with  his  mental  condition.  It  was  easier 
for  him  to  hide  his  chagrin.  "Some  one  else!  Yes; 
that's  it.  She  loves  some  other  fellow!  how  was  it  I 

[189] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

did  not  find  that  out  the  very  first  day?"  Then  he  re- 
called how  Reine  shrank  from  him  when  he  solicited, 
a  caress;  how  she  insisted  on  their  betrothal  being  kept 
secret,  and  how  many  times  she  had  postponed  the  date 
of  the  wedding.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  received 
him  only  in  self-defence,  and  on  the  pleading  of  Julien 
de  Buxieres.  Julien !  the  name  threw  a  gleam  of  light 
across  his  brain,  hitherto  as  foggy  as  the  country  around 
him.  Might  not  Julien  be  the  fortunate  rival  on  whom 
Reine's  affections  were  so  obstinately  set  ?  Still,  if  she 
had  always  loved  Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  in  what  spirit 
of  perversity  or  thoughtlessness  had  she  suffered  the 
advances  of  another  suitor? 

Reine  was  no  coquette,  and  such  a  course  of  action 
would  be  repugnant  to  her  frank,  open  nature.  It  was 
a  profound  enigma,  which  Claudet,  who  had  plenty  of 
good  common  sense,  but  not  much  insight,  was  unable 
to  solve.  But  grief  has,  among  its  other  advantages,  the 
power  of  rendering  our  perceptions  more  acute;  and  by 
dint  of  revolving  the  question  in  his  mind,  Claudet  at  last 
became  enlightened.  Had  not  Reine  simply  followed 
the  impulse  of  her  wounded  feelings?  She  was  very 
proud,  and  when  the  man  whom  she  secretly  loved  had 
come  coolly  forward  to  plead  the  cause  of  one  who  was 
indifferent  to  her,  would  not  her  self-respect  be  lowered, 
and  would  she  not,  in  a  spirit  of  bravado,  accept  the 
proposition,  in  order  that  he  might  never  guess  the  suf- 
ferings of  her  spurned  affections  ?  There  was  no  doubt, 
that,  later,  recognizing  that  the  task  was  beyond  her 
strength,  she  had  felt  ashamed  of  deceiving  Claudet  any 
longer,  and,  acting  on  the  advice  of  the  Abbe  Pernot, 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

C 

had  made  up  her  mind  to  break  off  a  union  that  was 
repugnant  to  her. 

"Yes;"  he  repeated,  mournfully  to  himself,  "that 
must  have  been  the  way  it  happened."  And  with  this 
kind  of  explanation  of  Reine's  actions,  his  irritation 
seemed  to  lessen.  Not  that  his  grief  was  less  poignant, 
but  the  first  burst  of  rage  had  spent  itself  like  a  great 
wind-storm,  which  becomes  lulled  after  a  heavy  fall  of 
rain;  the  bitterness  was  toned  down,  and  he  was  ena- 
bled to  reason  more  clearly. 

Julien — well,  what  was  the  part  of  Julien  in  all  this 
disturbance?  "If  what  I  imagine  is  true,"  thought  he, 
"  Monsieur  de  Buxferes  knows  that  Reine  loves  him,  but 
has  he  any  reciprocal  feeling  for  her?  With  a  man  as 
mysterious  as  my  cousin,  it  is  not  easy  to  find  out  what 
is  going  on  in  his  heart.  Anyhow,  I  have  no  right  to 
complain  of  him ;  as  soon  as  he  discovered  my  love  for 
Reine,  did  he  not,  besides  ignoring  his  own  claim,  offer 
spontaneously  to  take  my  message  ?  Still,  there  is  some- 
thing queer  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  and  whatever  it  costs 
me,  I  am  going  to  find  it  out." 

At  this  moment,  through  the  misty  air,  he  heard  faintly 
the  village  clock  strike  eleven.  "Already  so  late!  how 
the  lime  flies,  even  when  one  is  suffering ! "  He  bent  his 
course  toward  the  chateau,  and,  breathless  and  excited, 
without  replying  to  Manette's  inquiries,  he  burst  into  the 
hall  where  his  cousin  was  pacing  up  and  down,  waiting 
for  breakfast.  At  this  sudden  intrusion  Julien  started, 
and  noted  Claudet's  quick  breathing  and  disordered 
state. 

"Ho,  ho!"  exclaimed  he,  in  his  usual  sarcastic  tone, 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"  what  a.  hurry  you  are  in !    I  suppose  you  have  come  to 
say  the  wedding-day  is  fixed  at  last?" 

"No!"  replied  Claudet,  briefly,  "there  will  be  no 
wedding." 

Julien  tottered,  and  turned  to  face  his  cousin. 

"What's  that?    Are  you  joking?" 

"  I  am  in  no  mood  for  joking.  Reine  will  not  have 
me;  she  has  taken  back  her  promise." 

While  pronouncing  these  words,  he  scrutinized  atten- 
tively his  cousin's  countenance,  full  in  the  light  from  the 
opposite  window.  He  saw  his  features  relax,  and  his 
eyes  glow  with  the  same  expression  which  he  had 
noticed  a  few  days  previous,  when  he  had  referred 
to  the  fact  that  Reine  had  again  postponed  the  mar- 
riage. 

"Whence  comes  this  singular  change?"  stammered 
de  Buxieres,  visibly  agitated ;  "  what  reasons  does  Made- 
moiselle Vincart  give  in  explanation?" 

"Idle  words:  her  father's  health,  disinclination  to 
leave  him.  You  may  suppose  I  take  such  excuses  for 
what  they  are  worth.  The  real  cause  of  her  refusal  is 
more  serious  and  more  mortifying." 

"You  know  it,  then?"  exclaimed  Julien,  eagerly. 

"I  know  it,  because  I  forced  Reine  to  confess  it." 

"And  the  reason  is?" 

"That  she  does  not  love  me." 

"Reine — does  not  love  you!" 

Again  a  gleam  of  light  irradiated  the  young  man's 
large,  blue  eyes.  Claudet  was  leaning  against  the  table, 
in  front  of  his  cousin;  he  continued  slowly,  looking  him 
steadily  in  the  face: 

[192] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"That  is  not  all.  Not  only  does  Reine  not  love  me, 
but  she  lovee  some  one  else." 

Julien  changed  color;  the  blood  coursed  over  his 
cheeks,  his  forehead,  his  ears;  he  drooped  his  head. 

"Did  she  tell  you  so?"  he  murmured,  at  last,  feebly. 

"She  did  not,  but  I  guessed  it.  Her  heart  is  won, 
and  I  think  I  know  by  whom." 

Claudet  had  uttered  these  last  words  slowly  and  with 
a  painful  effort,  at  the  same  time  studying  Julien's 
countenance  with  renewed  inquiry.  The  latter  became 
more  and  more  troubled,  and  his  physiognomy  expressed 
both  anxiety  and  embarrassment. 

"Whom  do  you  suspect?"  he  stammered. 

"Oh!"  replied  Claudet,  employing  a  simple  artifice 
to  sound  the  obscure  depth  of  his  cousin's  heart,  "it  is 
useless  to  name  the  person;  you  do  not  know  him." 

"A  stranger?" 

Julien's  countenance  had  again  changed.  His  hands 
were  twitching  nervously,  his  lips  compressed,  and  his 
dilated  pupils  were  blazing  with  anger,  instead  of 
triumph,  as  before. 

"Yes;  a  stranger,  a  clerk  in  the  iron-works  at  Gran- 
cey,  I  think," 

"You   think! — you   think!"   cried    Julien,   fiercely, 
"why  don't  you  have  more  definite  information  before 
you  accuse  Mademoiselle  Vincart  of  such  treachery?" 

He  resumed  pacing  the  hall,  while  his  interlocutor, 
motionless,  remained  silent,  and  kept  his  eyes  steadily 
upon  him. 

"It  is  not  possible,"  resumed  Julien,  "Reine  can 
not  have  played  us  such  a  trick!  When  I  spoke  to 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

her  for  you,  it  was  so  easy  to  say  she  was  already  be- 
trothed!" 

"Perhaps,"  objected  Claudet,  shaking  his  head,  "she 
had  reasons  for  not  letting  you  know  all  that  was  in  her 
mind." 

"What  reasons?" 

"She  doubtless  believed  at  that  time  that  the  man 
she  preferred  did  not  care  for  her.  There  are  some 
people  who,  when  they  are  vexed,  act  in  direct  contra- 
diction to  their  own  wishes.  I  have  the  idea  that  Reine 
accepted  me  only  for  want  of  some  one  better,  and  after- 
ward, being  too  open-hearted  to  dissimulate  for  any 
length  of  time,  she  thought  better  of  it,  and  sent  me 
about  my  business." 

"And  you,"  interrupted  Julien,  sarcastically,  "you, 
who  had  been  accepted  as  her  betrothed,  did  not  know 
better  how  to  defend  your  rights  than  to  suffer  yourself 
to  be  ejected  by  a  rival,  whose  intentions,  even,  you  have 
not  clearly  ascertained!" 

"By  Jove!  how  could  I  help  it?  A  fellow  that  takes 
an  unwilling  bride  is  playing  for  too  high  stakes.  The 
moment  I  found  there  was  another  she  preferred,  I  had 
but  one  course  before  me — to  take  myself  off." 

"And  you  call  that  loving!"  shouted  de  Buxieres, 
"you  call  that  losing  your  heart!  God  in  heaven!  if  I 
had  been  in  your  place,  how  differently  I  should  have 
acted !  Instead  of  leaving,  with  piteous  protestations,  I 
should  have  stayed  near  Reine,  I  should  have  surrounded 
her  with  tenderness.  I  should  have  expressed  my  pas- 
sion with  so  much  force  that  its  flame  should  pass  from 
my  burning  soul  to  hers,  and  she  would  have  been  forced 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

to  love  me!  Ah!  If  I  had  only  thought!  if  I  had 
dared!  how  different  it  would  have  been!" 

He  jerked  out  his  sentences  with  unrestrained  frenzy. 
He  seemed  hardly  to  know  what  he  was  saying,  or  that 
he  had  a  listener.  Claudet  stood  contemplating  him  in 
sullen  silence:  "Aha!"  thought  he,  with  bitter  resigna- 
tion; "I  have  sounded  you  at  last.  I  know  what  is  in 
the  bottom  of  your  heart." 

Manette,  bringing  in  the  breakfast,  interrupted  their 
colloquy,  and  both  assumed  an  air  of  indifference, 
according  to  a  tacit  understanding  that  a  prudent 
amount  of  caution  should  be  observed  in  her  presence. 
They  ate  hurriedly,  and  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was  re- 
moved, and  they  were  again  alone,  Julien,  glancing  with 
an  indefinable  expression  at  Claudet,  muttered  sav- 
agely: 

"Well!  what  do  you  decide?" 

"I  will  tell  you  later,"  responded  the  other,  briefly. 

He  quitted  the  room  abruptly,  told  Manette  that  he 
would  not  be  home  until  late,  and  strode  out  across  the 
fields,  his  dog  following.  He  had  taken  his  gun  as  a 
blind,  but  it  was  useless  for  Montagnard  to  raise  his 
bark;  Claudet  allowed  the  hares  to  scamper  away  with 
out  sending  a  single  shot  after  them.  He  was  busy 
inwardly  recalling  the  details  of  the  conversation  he  had 
had  with  his  cousin.  The  situation  now  was  simplified : 
Julien  was  in  love  with  Reine,  and  was  vainly  combating 
his  overpowering  passion.  What  reason  had  he  for  con- 
cealing his  love?  What  motive  or  reasoning  had  in- 
duced him,  when  he  was  already  secretly  enamored  of 
the  girl,  to  push  Claudet  in  front  and  interfere  to  procure 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

her  acceptance  of  him  as  a  fiance?  This  point  alone 
remained  obscure.  Was  Julien  carrying  out  certain 
theories  of  the  respect  due  his  position  in  society,  and 
did  he  fear  to  contract  a  misalliance  by  marrying  a 
mere  farmer's  daughter?  Or  did  he,  with  his  usual 
timidity  and  distrust  of  himself,  dread  being  refused  by 
Reine,  and,  half  through  pride,  half  through  backward- 
ness, keep  away  for  fear  of  a  humiliating  rejection? 
With  de  Buxieres's  proud  and  suspicious  nature,  each  of 
these  suppositions  was  equally  likely.  The  conclusion 
most  undeniable  was,  that  notwithstanding  his  set  ideas 
and  his  moral  cowardice,  Julien  had  an  ardent  and  over- 
powering love  for  Mademoiselle  Vincart.  As  to  Reine 
herself,  Claudet  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  she 
had  a  secret  inclination  toward  somebody,  although  she 
had  denied  the  charge.  But  for  whom  was  her  prefer- 
ence ?  Claudet  knew  the  neighborhood  too  well  to  be- 
lieve the  existence  of  any  rival  worth  talking  about, 
other  than  his  cousin  de  Buxieres.  None  of  the  boys  of 
the  village  or  the  surrounding  towns  had  ever  come 
courting  old  Father  Vincart's  daughter,  and  de  Buxieres 
himself  possessed  sufficient  qualities  to  attract  Reine. 
Certainly,  if  he  were  a  girl,  he  never  should  fix  upon 
Julien  for  a  lover;  but  women  often  have  tastes  that 
men  can  not  comprehend,  and  Julien's  refinement  of 
nature,  his  bashfulness,  and  even  his  reserve,  might 
easily  have  fascinated  a  girl  of  such  strong  will  and 
somewhat  peculiar  notions.  It  was  probable,  there- 
fore, that  she  liked  him,  and  perhaps  had  done  so  for  a 
long  time;  but,  being  clear-sighted  and  impartial,  she 
could  see  that  he  never  would  marry  her,  because  her 

[196] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


condition  in  life  was  not  equal  to  his  own.  Afterward, 
when  the  man  she  loved  had  flaunted  his  indifference  so 
far  as  to  plead  the  cause  of  another,  her  pride  had  re- 
volted, and  in  the  blind  agony  of  her  wounded  feelings, 
she  had  thrown  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  first  comer, 
as  if  to  punish  herself  for  entertaining  loving  thoughts  of 
a  man  who  could  so  disdain  her  affection. 

So,  by  means  of  that  lucid  intuition  which  the  heart 
alone  can  furnish,  Claudet  at  last  succeeded  in  evolving 
the  naked  truth.  But  the  fatiguing  labor  of  so  much 
thinking,  to  which  his  brain  was  little  accustomed,  and 
the  sadness  which  continued  to  oppress  him,  overcame 
him  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  down 
and  rest  on  a  clump  of  brushwood.  He  gazed  over  the 
woods  and  the  clearings,  which  he  had  so  often  traversed 
light  of  heart  and  of  foot,  and  felt  mortally  unhappy. 
These  sheltering  lanes  and  growing  thickets,  where  he 
had  so  frequently  encountered  Reine,  the  beautiful  hunt- 
ing-grounds in  which  he  had  taken  such  delight,  only 
awakened  painful  sensations,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  should 
grow  to  hate  them  all  if  he  were  obliged  to  pass  the  rest 
of  his  days  in  their  midst.  As  the  day  waned,  the  sinu- 
osities of  the  forest  became  more  blended;  the  depth  of 
the  valleys  was  lost  in  thick  vapors.  The  wind  had 
risen.  The  first  falling  leaves  of  the  season  rose  and  fell 
like  wounded  birds;  heavy  clouds  gathered  in  the  sky, 
and  the  night  was  coming  on  apace.  Claudet  was  grate- 
ful for  the  sudden  darkness,  which  would  blot  out  a  view 
now  so  distasteful  to  him.  Shortly,  on  the  Auberive 
side,  along  the  winding  Aubette,  feeble  lights  became 
visible,  as  if  inviting  the  young  man  to  profit  by  their 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

guidance.  He  arose,  took  the  path  indicated,  and  went 
to  supper,  or  rather,  to  a  pretence  of  supper,  in  the  same 
inn  where  he  had  breakfasted  with  Julien,  whence  the 
latter  had  gone  on  his  mission  to  Reine.  This  remem- 
brance alone  would  have  sufficed  to  destroy  his  appe- 
tite. 

He  did  not  remain  long  at  table ;  he  could  not,  in  fact, 
stay  many  minutes  in  one  place,  and  so,  notwithstanding 
the  urgent  insistence  of  the  hostess,  he  started  on  the  way 
back  to  Vivey,  feeling  his  way  through  the  profound 
darkness.  When  he  reached  the  chateau,  every  one 
was  in  bed.  Noiselessly,  his  dog  creeping  after  him,  he 
slipped  into  his  room,  and,  overcome  with  fatigue,  fell 
into  a  heavy  slumber. 

The  next  morning  his  first  visit  was  to  Julien.  He 
found  him  in  a  nervous  and  feverish  condition,  having 
passed  a  sleepless  night.  Claudet's  revelations  had 
entirely  upset  his  intentions,  and  planted  fresh  thorns 
of  jealousy  in  his  heart.  On  first  hearing  that  the  mar- 
riage was  broken  off,  his  heart  had  leaped  for  joy,  and 
hope  had  revived  within  him ;  but  the  subsequent  infor- 
mation that  Mademoiselle  Vincart  was  probably  inter- 
ested in  some  lover,  as  yet  unknown,  had  grievously 
sobered  him.  He  was  indignant  at  Reine's  duplicity, 
and  Claudet's  cowardly  resignation.  The  agony  caused 
by  Claudet's  betrothal  was  a  matter  of  course,  but  this 
love-for-a-stranger  episode  was  an  unexpected  and 
mortal  wound.  He  was  seized  with  violent  fits  of  rage; 
he  was  sometimes  tempted  to  go  and  reproach  the  young 
girl  with  what  he  called  her  breach  of  faith,  and  then  go 
and  throw  himself  at  her  feet  and  avow  his  own  passion. 

[198] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

But  the  mistrust  he  had  of  himself,  and  his  incurable 
bashfulness,  invariably  prevented  these  heroic  resolu- 
tions from  being  carried  out.  He  had  so  long  cultivated 
a  habit  of  minute,  fatiguing  criticism  upon  every  inward 
emotion  that  he  had  almost  incapacitated  himself  for 
vigorous  action. 

He  was  in  this  condition  when  Claudet  came  in  upon 
him.  At  the  noise  of  the  opening  door,  Julien  raised 
his  head,  and  looked  dolefully  at  his  cousin. 

"Well?"  said  he,  languidly. 

"Well!"  retorted  Claudet,  bravely,  "on  thinking  over 
what  has  been  happening  during  the  last  month,  I  have 
made  sure  of  one  thing  of  which  I  was  doubtful." 

"Of  what  were  you  doubtful?"  returned  de  Buxieres, 
quite  ready  to  take  offence  at  the  answer. 

"I  am  about  to  tell  you.  Do  you  remember  the  first 
conversation  we  had  together  concerning  Reine  ?  You 
spoke  of  her  with  so  much  earnestness  that  I  then  sus- 
pected you  of  being  in  love  with  her." 

"I — I — hardly  remember,"  faltered  Julien,  coloring. 

"In  that  case,  my  memory  is  better  than  yours,  Mon- 
sieur de  Buxieres.  To-day,  my  suspicions  have  become 
certainties.  You  are  in  love  with  Reine  Vincart!" 

"I?"  faintly  protested  his  cousin. 

"Don't  deny  it,  but  rather,  give  me  your  confidence; 
you  will  not  be  sorry  for  it.  You  love  Reine,  and  have 
loved  her  for  a  long  while.  You  have  succeeded  in 
hiding  it  from  me  because  it  is  hard  for  you  to  unbosom 
yourself;  but,  yesterday,  I  saw  it  quite  plainly.  You 
dare  not  affirm  the  contrary!" 

Julien,  greatly  agitated,  had  hidden  his  face  in  his 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

hands.  After  a  moment's  silence,  he  replied,  defiantly : 
"Well,  and  supposing  it  is  so?  What  is  the  use  of 
talking  about  it,  since  Reine' s  affections  are  placed 
elsewhere  ?" 

"Oh!  that's  another  matter.  Reine  has  declined  to 
have  me,  and  I  really  think  she  has  some  other  affair 
in  her  head.  Yet,  to  confess  the  truth,  the  clerk  at  the 
iron-works  was  a  lover  of  my  own  imagining;  she  never 
thought  of  him." 

"Then  why  did  you  tell  such  a  lie?"  cried  Julien, 
impetuously. 

"Because  I  thought  I  would  plead  the  lie  to  get  at 
the  truth.  Forgive  me  for  having  made  use  of  this  old 
trick  to  put  you  on  the  right  track.  It  wasn't  such  a 
bad  idea,  for  I  succeeded  in  finding  out  what  you  took 
so  much  pains  to  hide  from  me." 

"To  hide  from  you  ?  Yes,  I  did  wish  to  hide  it  from 
you.  Wasn't  that  right,  since  I  was  convinced  that 
Reine  loved  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Julien,  in  an  almost  stifled 
voice,  as  if  the  avowal  were  choking  him.  "I  have 
always  thought  it  idle  to  parade  one's  feelings  before 
those  who  do  not  care  about  them." 

"You  were  wrong,"  returned  poor  Claudet,  sighing 
deeply,  "if  you  had  spoken  for  yourself,  I  have  an  idea 
you  would  have  been  better  received,  and  you  would 
have  spared  me  a  terrible  heart-breaking." 

He  said  it  with  such  profound  sadness  that  Julien, 
notwithstanding  the  absorbing  nature  of  his  own 
thoughts,  was  quite  overcome,  and  almost  on  the  point 
of  confessing,  openly,  the  intensity  of  his  feeling  toward 
Reine  Vincart.  But,  accustomed  as  he  was,  by  long 

[200] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 


habit,  to  concentrate  every  emotion  within  himself,  he 
found  it  impossible  to  become,  all  at  once,  commu- 
nicative; he  felt  an  invincible  and  almost  maidenly 
bashfulness  at  the  idea  of  revealing  the  secret  senti- 
ments of  his  soul,  and  contented  himself  with  saying, 
in  a  low  voice: 

"Do  you  not  love  her  any  more,  then?" 
"I?  oh,  yes,  indeed!  But  to  be  refused  by  the  only 
girl  I  ever  wished  to  marry  takes  all  the  spirit  out  of  me. 
I  am  so  discouraged,  I  feel  like  leaving  the  country.  If 
I  were  to  go,  it  would  perhaps  be  doing  you  a  service, 
and  that  would  comfort  me  a  little.  You  have  treated 
me  as  a  friend,  and  that  is  a  thing  one  doesn't  forget. 
I  have  not  the  means  to  pay  you  back  for  your  kindness, 
but  I  think  I  should  be  less  sorry  to  go  if  my  departure 
would  leave  the  way  more  free  for  you  to  return  to  La 
Thuiliere." 

"You  surely  would  not  leave  on  my  account?"  ex- 
claimed Julien,  in  alarm. 

"Not  solely  on  your  account,  rest  assured.  If  Reine 
had  loved  me,  it  never  would  have  entered  my  head  to 
make  such  a  sacrifice  for  you,  but  she  will  not  have 
me.  I  am  good  for  nothing  here.  I  am  only  in  your 
way." 

"But  that  is  a  wild  idea!  Where  would  you  go?" 
"Oh!  there  would  be  no  difficulty  about  that.  One 
plan  would  be  to  go  as  a  soldier.  Why  not?  I  am 
hardy,  a  good  walker,  a  good  shot,  can  stand  fatigue; 
I  have  everything  needed  for  military  life.  It  is  an 
occupation  that  I  should  like,  and  I  could  earn  my 
epaulets  as  well  as  my  neighbor.  So  that  perhaps, 

[  201  ] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  matters  might  in  that  way  be 
arranged  to  suit  everybody." 

"Claudet!"  stammered  Julien,  his  voice  thick  with 
sobs,  "you  are  a  better  man  than  I!  Yes;  you  are  a 
better  man  than  I!" 

And,  for  the  first  time,  yielding  to  an  imperious  long- 
ing for  expansion,  he  sprang  toward  the  grand  chasserot, 
clasped  him  in  his  arms,  and  embraced  him  fraternally. 

"  I  will  not  let  you  expatriate  yourself  on  my  account," 
he  continued;  "do  not  act  rashly,  I  entreat!" 

"Don't  worry,"  replied  Claudet,  laconically,  "if  I  so 
decide,  it  will  not  be  without  deliberation." 

In  fact,  during  the  whole  of  the  ensuing  week,  he 
debated  in  his  mind  this  question  of  going  away.  Each 
day  his  position  at  Vivey  seemed  more  unbearable. 
Without  informing  any  one,  he  had  been  to  Langres 
and  consulted  an  officer  of  his  acquaintance  on  the 
subject  of  the  formalities  required  previous  to  enrol- 
ment. 

At  last,  one  morning  he  resolved  to  go  over  to  the  mili- 
tary division  and  sign  his  engagement.  But  he  was 
not  willing  to  consummate  this  sacrifice  without  seeing 
Reine  Vincart  for  the  last  time.  He  was  nursing,  down 
in  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  a  vague  hope,  which,  frail 
and  slender  as  the  filament  of  a  plant,  was  yet  strong 
enough  to  keep  him  on  his  native  soil.  Instead  of  tak- 
ing the  path  to  Vivey,  he  made  a  turn  in  the  direction  of 
La  Thuiliere,  and  soon  reached  the  open  elevation 
whence  the  roofs  of  the  farm-buildings  and  the  turrets  of 
the  chateau  could  both  alike  be  seen.  There  he  faltered, 
v;ith  a  piteous  sinking  of  the  heart.  Only  a  few  steps 

[M.J 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

tween  himself  and  the  house,  yet  he  hesitated  about 
entering;  not  that  he  feared  a  want  of  welcome,  but  be- 
cause he  dreaded  lest  the  reawakening  of  his  tenderness 
should  cause  him  to  lose  a  portion  of  the  courage  he 
should  need  to  enable  him  to  leave.  He  leaned  against 
the  trunk  of  an  old  pear-tree  and  surveyed  the  forest  site 
on  which  the  farm  was  built. 

The  landscape  retained  its  usual  placidity.  In  the 
distance,  over  the  waste  lands,  the  shepherd  Tringuesse 
was  following  his  flock  of  sheep,  which  occasionally 
scattered  over  the  fields,  and  then,  under  the  dog's 
harassing  watchfulness,  reformed  in  a  compact  group, 
previous  to  descending  the  narrow  hill- slope.  One 
thing  struck  Claudet :  the  pastures  and  the  woods  bore 
exactly  the  same  aspect,  presented  the  same  play  of  light 
and  shade  as  on  that  afternoon  of  the  preceding  year, 
when  he  had  met  Reine  in  the  Ronces  woods,  a  few 
days  before  the  arrival  of  Julien.  The  same  bright  yet 
tender  tint  reddened  the  crab-apple  and  the  wild -cherry ; 
the  tomtits  and  the  robins  chirped  as  before,  among 
the  bushes,  and,  as  in  the  previous  year,  one  heard  the 
sound  of  the  beechnuts  and  acorns  dropping  on  the 
rocky  paths.  Autumn  went  through  her  tranquil  rites 
and  familiar  operations,  always  with  the  same  punctual 
regularity;  and  all  this  would  go  on  just  the  same  when 
Claudet  was  no  longer  there.  There  would  only  be  one 
lad  the  less  in  the  village  streets,  one  hunter  failing  to 
answer  the  call  when  they  were  surrounding  the  woods 
of  Charbonniere.  This  dim  perception  of  how  small  a 
space  man  occupies  on  the  earth,  and  of  the  ease  with 
which  he  is  forgotten,  aided  Claudet  unconsciously  in 

[203] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

his  effort  to  be  resigned,  and  he  determined  to  enter  the 
house.  As  he  opened  the  gate  of  the  courtyard,  he 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  Reine,  who  was  coming 
out. 

The  young  girl  immediately  supposed  he  had  come 
to  make  a  last  assault,  in  the  hope  of  inducing  her  to 
yield  to  his  wishes.  She  feared  a  renewal  of  the  painful 
scene  which  had  closed  their  last  interview,  and  her  first 
impulse  was  to  put  herself  on  her  guard.  Her  counte- 
nance darkened,  and  she  fixed  a  cold,  questioning  gaze 
upon  Claudet,  as  if  to  keep  him  at  a  distance.  But, 
when  she  noted  the  sadness  of  her  young  relative's  ex- 
pression, she  was  seized  with  pity.  Making  an  effort, 
however,  to  disguise  her  emotion,  she  pretended  to 
accost  him  with  the  calm  and  cordial  friendship  of  for- 
mer times. 

"Why,  good-morning,  Claudet,"  said  she,  "you  come 
just  in  time.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  you  would 
not  have  found  me.  Will  you  come  in  and  rest  a 
moment?" 

"Thanks,  Reine,"  said  he,  "I  will  not  hinder  you  in 
your  work.  But  I  wanted  to  say,  I  am  sorry  I  got 
angry  the  other  day;  you  were  right,  we  must  not  leave 
each  other  with  ill-feeling,  and,  as  I  am  going  away 
for  a  long  time,  I  desire  first  to  take  your  hand  in 
friendship." 

"You  are  going  away?" 

"Yes;  I  am  going  now  to  Langres  to  enroll  myself  as 
a  soldier.  And  true  it  is,  one  knows  when  one  goes 
away,  but  it  is  hard  to  know  when  one  will  come  back. 
That  is  why  I  wanted  to  say  good-by  to  you,  and  make 

[204] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

peace,  so  as  not  to  go  away  with  too  great  a  load  on 
my  heart." 

All  Reine's  coldness  melted  away.  This  young  fel- 
low, who  was  leaving  his  country  on  her  account,  was  the 
companion  of  her  infancy,  more  than  that,  her  nearest 
relative.  Her  throat  swelled,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
She  turned  away  her  head,  that  he  might  not  perceive 
her  emotion,  and  opened  the  kitchen-door. 

"  Come  in,  Claudet,"  said  she,  "we  shall  be  more  com- 
fortable in  the  dining-room.  We  can  talk  there,  and  you 
will  have  some  refreshment  before  you  go,  will  you  not  ?  " 

He  obeyed,  and  followed  her  into  the  house.  She 
went  herself  into  the  cellar,  to  seek  a  bottle  of  old  wine, 
brought  two  glasses,  and  filled  them  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

"Shall  you  remain  long  in  the  service?"  asked  she. 

"I  shall  engage  for  seven  years." 

"It  is  a  hard  life  that  you  are  choosing." 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  replied  he,  "I  could  not  stay 
here  doing  nothing." 

Reine  went  in  and  out  of  the  room  in  a  bewildered 
fashion.  Claudet,  too  much  excited  to  perceive  that  the 
young  girl's  impassiveness  was  only  on  the  surface,  said 
to  himself:  "It  is  all  over;  she  accepts  my  departure  as 
an  event  perfectly  natural;  she  treats  me  as  she  would 
Theotime,  the  coal-dealer,  or  the  tax-collector  Bouche- 
seiche.  A  glass  of  wine,  two  or  three  unimportant 
questions,  and  then,  good-by — a  pleasant  journey,  and 
take  care  of  yourself!" 

Then  he  made  a  show  of  taking  an  airy,  insouciant 
tone. 

[  205  ] 


ANDRE  THETJRIET 

"Oh,  well!"  he  exclaimed,  "I've  always  been  drawn 
toward  that  kind  of  life.  A  musket  will  be  a  little 
heavier  than  a  gun,  that's  all;  then  I  shall  see  different 
countries,  and  that  will  change  my  ideas. r'  He  tried  to 
appear  facetious,  poking  around  the  kitchen,  and  teasing 
the  magpie,  which  was  following  his  footsteps  with  in- 
quisitive anxiety.  Finally,  he  went  up  to  the  old  man 
Vincart,  who  was  lying  stretched  out  in  his  picture-lined 
niche.  He  took  the  flabby  hand  of  the  paralytic  old 
man,  pressed  it  gently  and  endeavored  to  get  up  a  little 
conversation  with  him,  but  he  had  it  all  to  himself,  the 
invalid  staring  at  him  all  the  time  with  uneasy,  wide- 
open  eyes.  Returning  to  Reine,  he  lifted  his  glass. 

"  To  your  health,  Reine ! "  said  he,  with  forced  gayety, 
"next  time  we  clink  glasses  together,  I  shall  be  an  ex- 
perienced soldier — you'll  see!" 

But,  when  he  put  the  glass  to  his  lips,  several  big 
tears  fell  in,  and  he  had  to  swallow  them  with  his  wine. 

"Well!"  he  sighed,  turning  away  while  he  passed 
the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  "it  must  be  time 
to  go." 

She  accompanied  him  to  the  threshold. 

"Adieu,  Reine!" 

"Adieu!"  she  murmured,  faintly. 

She  stretched  out  both  hands,  overcome  with  pity  and 
remorse.  He  perceived  her  emotion,  and  thinking  that 
she  perhaps  still  loved  him  a  little,  and  repented  having 
rejected  him,  threw  his  arms  impetuously  around  her. 
He  pressed  her  against  his  bosom,  and  imprinted  kisses, 
wet  with  tears,  upon  her  cheek.  He  could  not  leave  her, 
and  redoubled  his  caresses  with  passionate  ardor,  with 

[206] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

C 

the  ecstasy  of  a  lover  who  suddenly  meets  with  a  burst 
of  tenderness  on  the  part  of  the  woman  he  has  tenderly 
loved,  and  whom  he  expects  never  to  fold  again  in  his 
arms.  He  completely  lost  his  self-control.  His  em- 
brace became  so  ardent  that  Reine,  alarmed  at  the  sud- 
den outburst,  was  overcome  with  shame  and  terror, 
notwithstanding  the  thought  that  the  man,  who  was 
clasping  her  in  his  arms  with  such  passion,  was  her 
own  brother. 

She  tore  herself  away  from  him  and  pushed  him 
violently  back. 

"Adieu!"  she  cried,  retreating  to  the  kitchen,  of 
which  she  hastily  shut  the  door. 

Claudet  stood  one  moment,  dumfounded,  before  the 
door  so  pitilessly  shut  in  his  face,  then,  falling  suddenly 
from  his  happy  state  of  illusion  to  the  dead  level  of 
reality,  departed  precipitately  down  the  road. 

When  he  turned  to  give  a  parting  glance,  the  farm 
buildings  were  no  longer  visible,  and  the  waste  lands  of 
the  forest  border,  gray,  stony,  and  barren,  stretched 
their  mute  expanse  before  him. 

"No!"  exclaimed  he,  between  his  set  teeth,  "she 
never  loved  me.  She  thinks  only  of  the  other  man!  I 
have  nothing  more  to  do  but  go  away  and  never  re- 
turn!" 


[207! 


CHAPTER  IX 

LOVE  HEALS  THE  BROKEN  HEART 

N  arriving  at  Langres,  Claudet  enrolled 
in  the  seventeenth  battalion  of  light 
infantry.  Five  days  later,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  lamentations  of  Ma- 
nette,  he  left  Vivey,  going,  by  way  of 
Lyon,  to  the  camp  at  Lathonay,  where 
his  battalion  was  stationed.  Julien 
was  thus  left  alone  at  the  chateau  to 
recover  as  best  he  might  from  the  dazed  feeling  caused 
by  the  startling  events  of  the  last  few  weeks.  After 
Claudet's  departure,  he  felt  an  uneasy  sensation  of  dis- 
comfort, and  as  if  he  himself  had  lessened  in  value.  He 
had  never  before  realized  how  little  space  he  occupied 
in  his  own  dwelling,  and  how  much  living  heat  Claudet 
had  infused  into  the  house  which  was  now  so  cold  and 
empty.  He  felt  poor  and  diminished  in  spirit,  and  was 
ashamed  of  being  so  useless  to  himself  and  to  others. 
He  had  before  him  a  prospect  of  new  duties,  which 
frightened  him.  The  management  of  the  district,  which 
Claudet  had  undertaken  for  him,  would  now  fall  entirely 
on  his  shoulders,  and  just  at  the  time  of  the  timber  sales 
and  the  renewal  of  the  fences.  Besides  all  this,  he  had 
Manette  on  his  conscience,  thinking  he  ought  to  try  to 
soften  her  grief  at  her  son's  unexpected  departure.  The 

[208] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

ancient  housekeeper  was  like  Rachel,  she  refused  to  be 
comforted,  and  her  temper  was  not  improved  by  her 
recent  trials.  She  filled  the  air  with  lamentations,  and 
seemed  to  consider  Julien  responsible  for  her  troubles. 
The  latter  treated  her  with  wonderful  patience  and  in- 
dulgence, and  exhausted  his  ingenuity  to  make  her  time 
pass  more  pleasantly.  This  was  the  first  real  effort  he 
had  made  to  subdue  his  dislikes  and  his  passive  ten- 
dencies, and  it  had  the  good  effect  of  preparing  him, 
by  degrees,  to  face  more  serious  trials,  and  to  take  the 
initiative  in  matters  of  greater  importance.  He  dis- 
covered that  the  energy  he  expended  in  conquering  a 
first  difficulty  gave  him  more  ability  to  conquer  the  sec- 
ond, and  from  that  result  he  decided  that  the  will  is  like 
a  muscle,  which  shrivels  in  inaction  and  is  developed  by 
exercise;  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  attack  coura- 
geously the  work  before  him,  although  it  had  formerly 
appeared  beyond  his  capabilities. 

He  now  rose  always  at  daybreak.  Gaitered  like  a 
huntsman,  and  escorted  by  Montagnard,  who  had  taken 
a  great  liking  to  him,  he  would  proceed  to  the  forest, 
visit  the  cuttings,  hire  fresh  workmen,  familiarize  him- 
self with  the  woodsmen,  interest  himself  in  their  labors, 
their  joys  and  their  sorrows;  then,  when  evening  came, 
he  was  quite  astonished  to  find  himself  less  weary,  less 
isolated,  and  eating  with  considerable  appetite  the  sup- 
per prepared  for  him  by  Manette.  Since  he  had  been 
traversing  the  forest,  not  as  a  stranger  or  a  person  of 
leisure,  but  with  the  predetermination  to  accomplish 
some  useful  work,  he  had  learned  to  appreciate  its 
beauties.  The  charms  of  nature  and  the  living  creatures 
14  [  209  ] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

around  no  longer  inspired  him  with  the  defiant  scorn 
which  he  had  imbibed  from  his  early  solitary  life  and 
his  priestly  education;  he  now  viewed  them  with  pleas- 
ure and  interest.  In  proportion,  as  his  sympathies  ex- 
panded and  his  mind  became  more  virile,  the  exterior 
world  presented  a  more  attractive  appearance  to  himt 
While  this  work  of  transformation  was  going  on 
within  him,  he  was  aided  and  sustained  by  the  ever  dear 
and  ever  present  image  of  Reine  Vincart.  The  trenches, 
filled  with  dead  leaves,  the  rows  of  beech-trees,  stripped 
of  their  foliage  by  the  rude  breath  of  winter,  the  odor 
peculiar  to  underwood  during  the  dead  season,  all  re- 
called to  his  mind  the  impressions  he  had  received  while 
in  company  with  the  woodland  queen.  Now  that  he 
could  better  understand  the  young  girPs  adoration  of 
the  marvellous  forest  world,  he  sought  out,  with  loving 
interest,  the  sites  where  she  had  gone  into  ecstasy,  the 
details  of  the  landscape  which  she  had  pointed  out  to 
him  the  year  before,  and  had  made  him  admire.  The 
beauty  of  the  scene  was  associated  in  his  thoughts  with 
Reine's  love,  and  he  could  not  think  of  either  separately. 
But,  notwithstanding  the  steadfastness  and  force  of  his 
love,  he  had  not  yet  made  any  effort  to  see  Mademoiselle 
Vincart.  At  first,  the  increase  of  occupation  caused  by 
Claudet's  departure,  the  new  duties  devolving  upon  him, 
together  with  his  inexperience,  had  prevented  Julien 
from  entertaining  the  possibility  of  renewing  relations 
that  had  been  so  violently  sundered.  Little  by  little, 
however,  as  he  reviewed  the  situation  of  affairs,  which 
his  cousin's  generous  sacrifice  had  engendered,  he  began 
to  consider  how  he  could  benefit  thereby.  Claudet's 

[210] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

departure  had  left  the  field  free,  but  Julien  felt  no  more 
confidence  in  himself  than  before.  The  fact  that  Reine 
had  so  unaccountably  refused  to  marry  the  grand  chas- 
serot  did  not  seem  to  him  sufficient  encouragement. 
Her  motive  was  a  secret,  and  therefore,  of  doubtful 
interpretation.  Besides,  even  if  she  were  entirely  heart- 
whole,  was  that  a  reason  why  she  should  give  Julien  a 
favorable  reception?  Could  she  forget  the  cruel  insult 
to  which  he  had  subjected  her  ?  And  immediately  after 
that  outrageous  behavior  of  his,  he  had  had  the  stupid- 
ity to  make  a  proposal  for  Claudet.  That  was  the  kind 
of  affront,  thought  he,  that  a  woman  does  not  easily  for- 
give, and  the  very  idea  o*  presenting  himself  before  her 
made  his  heart  sink.  He  had  seen  her  only  at  a  dis- 
tance, at  the  Sunday  mass,  and  every  time  he  had  en- 
deavored to  catch  her  eye  she  had  turned  away  her  head. 
She  also  avoided,  in  every  way,  any  intercourse  with  the 
chateau.  Whenever  a  question  arose,  such  as  the  ap- 
portionment of  lands,  or  the  allotment  of  cuttings, 
which  would  necessitate  her  having  recourse  to  M.  de 
Buxieres,  she  would  abstain  from  writing  herself,  and 
correspond  only  through  the  notary,  Arbillot.  Claudet's 
heroic  departure,  therefore,  had  really  accomplished 
nothing;  everything  was  exactly  at  the  same  point  as 
the  day  after  Julien's  unlucky  visit  to  La  Thuiliere,  and 
the  same  futile  doubts  and  fears  agitated  him  now  as 
then.  It  also  occurred  to  him,  that  while  he  was  thus 
debating  and  keeping  silence,  days,  weeks,  and  months 
were  slipping  away;  that  Reine  would  soon  reach  her 
twenty-third  year,  and  that  she  would  be  thinking  of 
marriage.  It  was  well  known  that  she  had  some  for- 

[211] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

tune,  and  suitors  were  not  lacking.  Even  allowing  that 
she  had  no  afterthought  in  renouncing  Claudet,  she 
could  not  always  live  alone  at  the  farm,  and  some  day 
she  would  be  compelled  to  accept  a  marriage  of  con- 
venience, if  not  of  love. 

"And  to  think,"  he  would  say  to  himself,  "that  she 
is  there,  only  a  few  steps  away,  that  I  am  consumed 
with  longing,  that  I  have  only  to  traverse  those  pastures, 
to  throw  myself  at  her  feet,  and  that  I  positively  dare 
not!  Miserable  wretch  that  I  am,  it  was  last  spring, 
while  we  were  in  that  hut  together,  that  I  should  have 
spoken  of  my  love,  instead  of  terrifying  her  with  my 
brutal  caresses!  Now  it  is  too  late!  I  have  wounded 
and  humiliated  her;  I  have  driven  away  Claudet,  who 
would  at  any  rate  have  made  her  a  stalwart  lover,  and  I 
have  made  two  beings  unhappy,  without  counting  my- 
self. So  much  for  my  miserable  shufflings  and  evasion! 
Ah!  if  one  could  only  begin  life  over  again!" 

While  thus  lamenting  his  fate,  the  march  of  time  went 
steadily  on,  with  its  pitiless  dropping  out  of  seconds, 
minutes,  and  hours.  The  worst  part  of  winter  was  over ; 
the  March  gales  had  dried  up  the  forests;  April  was 
tingeing  the  woods  with  its  tender  green ;  the  song  of  the 
cuckoo  was  already  heard  in  the  tufted  bowers,  and  the 
festival  of  St.  George  had  passed. 

Taking  advantage  of  an  unusually  clear  day,  Julien 
went  to  visit  a  farm,  belonging  to  him,  in  the  plain  of 
Anjeures,  on  the  border  of  the  forest  of  Maigrefontaine. 
After  breakfasting  with  the  farmer,  he  took  the  way 
home  through  the  woods,  so  that  he  might  enjoy  the 
first  varied  effects  of  the  season. 

[212] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

c. 

The  forest  of  Maigrefontaine,  situated  on  the  slope  of 
a  hill,  was  full  of  rocky,  broken  ground,  interspersed 
with  deep  ravines,  along  which  narrow  but  rapid  streams 
ran  to  swell  the  fishpond  of  La  Thuiliere.  Julien  had 
wandered  away  from  the  road,  into  the  thick  of  the  for- 
est where  the  budding  vegetation  was  at  its  height,  where 
the  lilies  multiply  and  the  early  spring  flowers  disclose 
their  umbel-shaped  clusters,  full  of  tiny,  white  stars. 
The  sight  of  these  blossoms,  which  had  such  a  tender 
meaning  for  him,  since  he  had  identified  the  name  with 
that  of  Reine,  brought  vividly  before  him  the  beloved 
image  of  the  young  girl.  He  walked  slowly  and  lan- 
guidly on,  heated  by  his  feverish  recollections  and 
desires,  tormented  by  useless  self-reproach,  and  physi- 
cally intoxicated  by  the  balmy  atmosphere  and  the  odor 
of  the  flowering  shrubs  at  his  feet.  Arriving  at  the  edge 
of  a  somewhat  deep  pit,  he  tried  to  leap  across  with  a 
single  bound,  but,  whether  he  made  a  false  start,  or  that 
he  was  weakened  and  dizzy  with  the  conflicting  emotions 
with  which  he  had  been  battling,  he  missed  his  footing 
and  fell,  twisting  his  ankle,  on  the  side  of  the  embank- 
ment. He  rose  with  an  effort  and  put  his  foot  to  the 
ground,  but  a  sharp  pain  obliged  him  to  lean  against  the 
trunk  of  a  neighboring  ash- tree.  His  foot  felt  as  heavy 
as  lead,  and  every  time  he  tried  to  straighten  it  his  suf- 
ferings were  intolerable.  All  he  could  do  was  to  drag 
himself  along  from  one  tree  to  another  until  he  reached 
the  path. 

Exhausted  by  this  effort,  he  sat  down  on  the  grass, 
unbuttoned  his  gaiter,  and  carefully  unlaced  his  boot. 
His  foot  had  swollen  considerably.  He  began  to  fear  he 

[213] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

had  sprained  it  badly,  and  wondered  how  he  could  get 
back  to  Vivey.  Should  he  have  to  wait  on  this  lonely 
road  until  some  woodcutter  passed,  who  would  take 
him  home?  Montagnard,  his  faithful  companion,  had 
seated  himself  in  front  of  him,  and  contemplated  him 
with  moist,  troubled  eyes,  at  the  same  time  emitting 
short,  sharp  whines,  which  seemed  to  say: 

"What  is  the  matter?"  and,  "How  are  we  going  to 
get  out  of  this?" 

Suddenly  he  heard  footsteps  approaching.  He  per- 
ceived a  flutter  of  white  skirts  behind  the  copse,  and 
just  at  the  moment  he  was  blessing  the  lucky  chance 
that  had  sent  some  one  in  that  direction,  his  eyes  were 
gladdened  with  a  sight  of  the  fair  visage  of  Reine. 

She  was  accompanied  by  a  little  girl  of  the  village, 
carrying  a  basket  full  of  primroses  and  freshly  gathered 
ground  ivy.  Reine  was  quite  familiar  with  all  the  medi- 
cinal herbs  of  the  country,  and  gathered  them  in  their 
season,  in  order  to  administer  them  as  required  to  the 
people  of  the  farm.  When  she  was  within  a  few  feet  of 
Julien,  she  recognized  him,  and  her  brow  clouded  over; 
but  almost  immediately  she  noticed  his  altered  features 
and  that  one  of  his  feet  was  shoeless,  and  divined  that 
something  unusual  had  happened.  Going  straight  up 
to  him,  she  said: 

"You  seem  to  be  suffering,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres. 
What  is  the  matter?" 

"A — a  foolish  accident,"  replied  he,  putting  on  a  care- 
less manner.  "I  fell  and  sprained  my  ankle." 

The  young  girl  knit  her  brows  with  an  anxious  expres- 
sion; then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  said: 

[214] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

C 

"Will  you  let  me  see  your  foot?  My  mother  under- 
stood about  bone-setting,  and  I  have  been  told  that  I 
inherit  her  gift  of  curing  sprains." 

She  drew  from  the  basket  an  empty  bottle  and  a  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Zelie,"  said  she  to  the  little  damsel,  who  was  stand- 
ing astonished  at  the  colloquy,  "go  quickly  down  to  the 
stream,  and  fill  this  bottle." 

While  she  was  speaking,  Julien,  greatly  embarrassed, 
obeyed  her  suggestions,  and  uncovered  his  foot.  Reine, 
without  any  prudery  or  nonsense,  raised  the  wounded 
limb,  and  felt  around  cautiously. 

"I  think,"  said  she  at  last,  "that  the  muscles  are 
somewhat  injured." 

Without  another  word,  she  tore  the  handkerchief  into 
narrow  strips,  and  poured  the  contents  of  the  bottle, 
which  Zelie  had  filled,  slowly  over  the  injure  member, 
holding  her  hand  high  for  that  purpose.  Then,  with  a 
soft  yet  firm  touch,  she  pressed  the  injured  muscles  into 
their  places,  while  Julien  bit  his  lips  and  did  his  very 
utmost  to  prevent  her  seeing  how  much  he  was  suffering. 
After  this  massage  treatment,  the  young  girl  bandaged 
the  ankle  tightly  with  the  linen  bands,  and  fastened 
them  securely  with  pins. 

"There,"  said  she,  "now  try  to  put  on  your  shoe  and 
stocking;  they  will  give  support  to  the  muscles.  Now 
you,  Zelie,  run,  fit  to  break  your  neck,  to  the  farm,  make 
them  harness  the  wagon,  and  tell  them  to  bring  it  here, 
as  close  to  the  path  as  possible." 

The  girl  picked  up  her  basket  and  started  on  a  trot. 

"Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  Reine,  "do  you  think 
[215] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

you  can  walk  as  far  as  the  carriage  road,  by  leaning  on 
my  arm?" 

"Yes;"  he  replied,  with  a  grateful  glance  which 
greatly  embarrassed  Mademoiselle  Vincart,  "you  have 
relieved  me  as  if  by  a  miracle.  I  feel  much  better  and 
as  if  I  could  go  anywhere  you  might  lead,  while  leaning 
on  your  arm!" 

She  helped  him  to  rise,  and  he  took  a  few  steps  with 
her  aid. 

"Why,  it  feels  really  better,"  sighed  he. 

He  was  so  happy  in  feeling  himself  thus  tenderly  sup- 
ported by  Reine,  that  he  altogether  forgot  his  pain. 

"Let  us  walk  slowly,"  continued  she,  "and  do  not  be 
afraid  to  lean  on  me.  All  you  have  to  think  of  is  reach- 
ing the  carriage." 

"How  good  you  are,"  stammered  he,  "and  how 
ashamed  I  am!" 

"Ashamed  of  what?"  returned  Reine,  hastily.  "I 
have  done  nothing  extraordinary;  anyone  else  would 
have  acted  in  the  same  manner." 

"I  entreat  you,"  replied  he,  earnestly,  "not  to  spoil 
my  happiness.  I  know  very  well  that  the  first  person 
who  happened  to  pass  would  have  rendered  me  some 
charitable  assistance;  but  the  thought  that  it  is  you — 
you  alone — who  have  helped  me,  fills  me  with  delight, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  increases  my  remorse.  I  so 
little  deserve  that  you  should  interest  yourself  in  my 
behalf!" 

He  waited,  hoping  perhaps  that  she  would  ask  for  an 
explanation,  but,  seeing  that  she  did  not  appear  to 
understand,  he  added: 

[216] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"I  have  offended  you.  I  have  misunderstood  you, 
and  I  have  been  cruelly  punished  for  my  mistake.  But 
what  avails  my  tardy  regret  in  healing  the  injuries  I  have 
inflicted!  Ah!  if  one  could  only  go  backward,  and 
efface,  with  a  single  stroke,  the  hours  in  which  one  has 
been  blind  and  headstrong!" 

"Let  us  not  speak  of  that!"  replied  she,  shortly,  but 
in  a  singularly  softened  tone. 

In  spite  of  herself,  she  was  touched  by  this  expression 
of  repentance,  so  naively  acknowledged  in  broken,  dis- 
connected sentences,  vibrating  with  the  ring  of  true  sin- 
cerity. In  proportion  as  he  abased  himself,  her  anger 
diminished,  and  she  recognized  that  she  loved  him  just 
the  same,  notwithstanding  his  defects,  his  weakness,  and 
his  want  of  tact  and  polish.  She  was  also  profoundly 
touched  by  his  revealing  to  her,  for  the  first  time,  a  por- 
tion of  his  hidden  feelings. 

They  had  become  silent  again,  but  they  felt  nearer  to 
each  other  than  ever  before;  their  secret  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  transmitted  to  each  other;  a  mute  under- 
standing was  established  between  them.  She  lent  him 
the  support  of  her  arm  with  more  freedom,  and  the 
young  man  seemed  to  experience  fresh  delight  in  her 
firm  and  sympathetic  assistance. 

Progressing  slowly,  although  more  quickly  than  they 
would  have  chosen  themselves^  they  reached  the  foot 
of  the  path,  and  perceived  the  wagon  waiting  on  the 
beaten  road.  Julien  mounted  therein  with  the  aid  of 
Reine  and  the  driver.  When  he  was  stretched  on  the 
straw,  which  had  been  spread  for  him  on  the  bottom  of 

the  wagon,  he  leaned  forward  on  the  side,  and  his  eyes 

[217] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

met  those  of  Reine.  For  a  few  moments  their  gaze 
seemed  riveted  upon  each  other,  and  their  mutual  un- 
derstanding was  complete.  These  few,  brief  moments 
contained  a  whole  confession  of  love;  avowals  mingled 
with  repentance,  promises  of  pardon,  tender  reconcilia- 
tion! 

"Thanks!"  he  sighed  at  last,  "will  you  give  me  your 
hand?" 

She  gave  it,  and  while  he  held  it  in  his  own,  Reine 
turned  toward  the  driver  on  the  seat. 

"Felix,"  said  she,  warningly,  "drive  slowly  and 
avoid  the  ruts.  Good-night,  Monsieur  de  Buxieres, 
send  for  the  doctor  as  soon  as  you  get  in,  and  all  will 
be  well.  I  will  send  to  inquire  how  you  are  getting 
along." 

She  turned  and  went  pensively  down  the  road  to  La 
Thuiliere,  while  the  carriage  followed  slowly  the  direc- 
tion to  Vivey. 

The  doctor,  being  sent  for  immediately  on  Julien's 
arrival,  pronounced  it  a  simple  sprain,  and  declared  that 
the  preliminary  treatment  had  been  very  skilfully  ap- 
plied, that  the  patient  had  now  only  to  keep  perfectly 
still.  Two  days  later  came  La  Guite  from  Reine,  to 
inquire  after  M.  de  Buxi&res's  health.  She  brought  a 
large  bunch  of  lilies  which  Mademoiselle  Vincart  had 
sent  to  the  patient,  to  console  him  for  not  being  able 
to  go  in  the  woods,  which  Julien  kept  for  several  days 
close  by  his  side. 

This  accident,  happening  at  Maigrefontaine,  and 
providentially  attended  to  by  Reine  Vincart,  the  return 
to  the  chateau  in  the  vehicle  belonging  to  La  Thuiliere, 

[218] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

the  sending  of  the  lilies,  were  all  a  source  of  great  mys- 
tification to  Manette.  She  suspected  some  amorous 
mystery  in  all  these  events,  commented  somewhat  un- 
charitably on  every  minor  detail,  and  took  care  to  carry 
her  comments  all  over  the  village.  Very  soon  the  entire 
parish,  from  the  most  insignificant  woodchopper  to  the 
Abbe*  Pernot  himself,  were  made  aware  that  there  was 
something  going  on  between  M.  de  Buixeres  and  the 
daughter  of  old  M.  Vincart. 

In  the  mean  time,  Julien,  quite  unconscious  that  his 
love  for  Reine  was  providing  conversation  for  all  the 
gossips  of  the  country,  was  cursing  the  untoward  event 
that  kept  him  stretched  in  his  invalid-chair.  At  last, 
one  day,  he  discovered  he  could  put  his  foot  down  and 
walk  a  little  with  the  assistance  of  his  cane ;  a  few  days 
after,  the  doctor  gave  him  permission  to  go  out  of  doors. 
His  first  visit  was  to  La  Thuiliere. 

He  went  there  in  the  afternoon  and  found  Reine  in 
the  kitchen,  seated  by  the  side  of  her  paralytic  father, 
who  was  asleep.  She  was  reading  a  newspaper,  which 
she  retained  in  her  hand,  while  rising  to  receive  her  visi- 
tor. After  she  had  congratulated  him  on  his  recovery, 
and  he  had  expressed  his  cordial  thanks  for  her  timely 
aid,  she  showed  him  the  paper. 

"You  find  me  in  a  state  of  disturbance,"  said  she, 
with  a  slight  degree  of  embarrassment,  "it  seems  that 
we  are  going  to  have  war  and  that  our  troops  have 
entered  Italy.  Have  you  any  news  of  Claudet?" 

Julien  started.  This  was  the  last  remark  he  could 
have  expected.  Claudet's  name  had  not  been  once 
mentioned  in  their  interview  at  Maigrefontaine,  and  he 

[219] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

had  nursed  the  hope  that  Reine  thought  no  longer 
about  him. 

All  his  mistrust  returned  in  a  moment  on  hearing  this 
name  come  from  the  young  girl's  lips  the  moment  he 
entered  the  house,  and  seeing  the  emotion  which  the 
news  in  the  paper  had  caused  her. 

"He  wrote  me  a  few  days  ago,"  replied  he. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  Italy,  with  his  battalion,  which  is  a  part  of  the 
first  army  corps.  His  last  letter  is  dated  from  Alex- 
andria." 

Reine' s  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears,  and  she  gazed 
absently  at  the  distant  wooded  horizon. 

"Poor  Claudet!"  murmured  she,  sighing,  "what  is  he 
doing  just  now,  I  wonder?" 

"Ah!"  thought  Julien,  his  visage  darkening,  "per- 
haps she  loves  him  still!" 

Poor  Claudet !  At  the  very  time  they  are  thus  talking 
about  him  at  the  farm,  he  is  camping  with  his  battalion 
near  Voghera,  on  the  banks  of  one  of  the  obscure  tribu- 
taries of  the  river  Po,  in  a  country  rich  in  waving  corn, 
interspersed  with  bounteous  orchards  and  hardy  vines 
climbing  up  to  the  very  tops  of  the  mulberry-trees.  His 
battalion  forms  the  extreme  end  of  the  advance  guard, 
and  at  the  approach  of  night,  Claudet  is  on  duty  on  the 
banks  of  the  stream.  It  is  a  lovely  May  night,  irradiated 
by  millions  of  stars,  which,  under  the  limpid  Italian  sky, 
appear  larger  and  nearer  to  the  watcher  than  they  ap- 
peared in  the  vaporous  atmosphere  of  the  Haute-Marne. 

Nightingales  are  calling  to  one  another  among  the 
[  220  ] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

trees  of  the  orchard,  and  the  entire  landscape  seems 
imbued  with  their  amorous  music.  What  ecstasy  to 
listen  to  them!  What  serenity  their  liquid  harmonies 
spread  over  the  smiling  landscape,  faintly  revealing  its 
beauties  in  the  mild  starlight. 

Who  would  think  that  preparations  for  deadly  com- 
bat were  going  on  through  the  serenity  of  such  a  night? 
Occasionally  a  sharp  exchange  of  musketry  with  the 
advanced  post  of  the  enemy  bursts  upon  the  ear,  and 
all  the  nightingales  keep  silence.  Then,  when  quiet  is 
restored  in  the  upper  air,  the  chorus  of  spring  songsters 
begins  again.  Claudet  leans  on  his  gun,  and  remembers 
that  at  this  same  hour  the  nightingales  in  the  park  at 
Vivey,  and  in  the  garden  of  La  Thuiliere,  are  pour- 
ing forth  the  same  melodies.  He  recalls  the  bright 
vision  of  Reine:  he  sees  her  leaning  at  her  window, 
listening  to  the  same  amorous  song  issuing  from  the 
coppice  woods  of  Maigrefontaine.  His  heart  swells 
within  him,  and  an  overpowering  homesickness  takes 
possession  of  him.  But  the  next  moment  he  is  ashamed 
of  his  weakness,  he  remembers  his  responsibility,  primes 
his  ear,  and  begins  investigating  the  dark  hollows  and 
rising  hillocks  where  an  enemy  might  hide. 

The  next  morning,  May  2oth,  he  is  awakened  by  a 
general  hubbub  and  noise  of  fighting.  The  battalion 
to  which  he  belongs  has  made  an  attack  upon  Monte- 
bello,  and  is  sending  its  sharpshooters  among  the  corn- 
fields and  vineyards.  Some  of  the  regiments  invade  the 
rice-fields,  climb  the  walls  of  the  vineyards,  and  charge 
the  enemy's  column-ranks.  The  sullen  roar  of  the  can- 
non alternates  with  the  sharp  report  of  guns,  and  whole 

[  221  ] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

showers  of  grape-shot  beat  the  air  with  their  piercing 
whistle.  All  through  the  uproar  of  guns  and  thunder 
of  the  artillery,  you  can  distinguish  the  guttural  hurrahs 
of  the  Austrians,  and  the  broken  oaths  of  the  French 
troopers.  The  trenches  are  piled  with  dead  bodies,  the 
trumpets  sound  the  attack,  the  survivors,  obeying  an 
irresistible  impulse,  spring  to  the  front.  The  ridges  are 
crested  with  human  masses  swaying  to  and  fro,  and 
the  first  red  uniform  is  seen  in  the  streets  of  Montebello, 
in  relief  against  the  chalky  facades  bristling  with  Aus- 
trian guns,  pouring  forth  their  ammunition  on  the  enemy 
below.  The  soldiers  burst  into  the  houses,  the  court- 
yards, the  enclosures;  every  instant  you  hear  the  break- 
ing open  of  doors,  the  crashing  of  windows,  and  the 
scuffling  of  the  terrified  inmates.  The  white  uniforms 
retire  in  disorder.  The  village  belongs  to  the  French! 
Not  just  yet,  though.  From  the  last  houses  on  the 
street,  to  the  entrance  of  the  cemetery,  is  rising  ground, 
and  just  behind  stands  a  small  hillock.  The  enemy  has 
retrenched  itself  there,  and,  from  its  cannons  ranged  in 
battery,  is  raining  a  terrible  shower  on  the  village  just 
evacuated. 

The  assailants  hesitate,  and  draw  back  before  this 
hailstorm  of  iron;  suddenly  a  general  appears  from 
under  the  walls  of  a  building  already  crumbling  under 
the  continuous  fire,  spurs  his  horse  forward,  and  shouts: 
"Come,  boys,  let  us  carry  the  fort!" 

Among  the  first  to  rally  to  this  call,  one  rifleman  in 
particular,  a  fine,  broad-shouldered  active  fellow,  with 
a  brown  moustache  and  olive  complexion,  darts  forward 
to  the  point  indicated.  It  is  Claudet.  Others  are  be- 

[  222  ] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

hind  him,  and  soon  more  than  a  hundred  men,  with 
their  bayonets,  are  hurling  themselves  along  the  ceme- 
tery road;  the  grand  chasserot  leaps  across  the  fields,  as 
he  used  formerly  in  pursuit  of  the  game  in  the  Char- 
bonniere  forest.  The  soldiers  are  falling  right  and  left 
of  him,  but  he  hardly  sees  them;  he  continues  pressing 
forward,  breathless,  excited,  scarcely  stopping  to  think. 
As  he  is  crossing  one  of  the  meadows,  however,  he  notices 
the  profusion  of  scarlet  gladiolus  and  also  observes  that 
the  rye  and  barley  grow  somewhat  sturdier  here  than  in 
his  country;  these  are  the  only  definite  ideas  that  detach 
themselves  clearly  from  his  seething  brain.  The  wall  of 
the  cemetery  is  scaled;  they  are  fighting  now  in  the 
ditches,  killing  one  another  on  the  side  of  the  hill;  at 
last,  the  fort  is  taken  and  they  begin  routing  the  enemy. 
But,  at  this  moment,  Claudet  stoops  to  pick  up  a  cart- 
ridge, a  ball  strikes  him  in  the  forehead,  and,  without  a 
sound,  he  drops  to  the  ground,  among  the  noisome 
fennels  which  flourish  in  graveyards — he  drops,  thinking 
of  the  clock  of  his  native  village. 


"I  have  sad  news  for  you,"  said  Julien  to  Reine,  as 
he  entered  the  garden  of  La  Thuiliere,  one  June  after- 
noon. 

He  had  received  official  notice  the  evening  before, 
through  the  mayor,  of  the  decease  of  "  Germain-Claudet 
S£journant,  volunteer  in  the  seventeenth  battalion  of 
light  infantry,  killed  in  an  engagement  with  the  enemy, 
May  20,  1859." 

Reine  was  standing  between  two  hedges  of  large 
[  223  ] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

peasant-roses.    At  the  first  words  that  fell  from  M.  de 
Buxieres' s  lips,  she  felt  a  presentiment  of  misfortune. 

"Claudet?"  murmured  she. 

aHe  is  dead,"  replied  Julien,  almost  inaudibly,  "he 
fought  bravely  and  was  killed  at  Montebello." 

The  young  girl  remained  motionless,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment de  Buxieres  thought  she  would  be  able  to  bear, 
with  some  degree  of  composure,  this  announcement  of 
the  death  in  a  foreign  country  of  a  man  whom  she  had 
refused  as  a  husband.  Suddenly  she  turned  aside,  took 
two  or  three  steps,  then  leaning  her  head  and  folded  arms 
on  the  trunk  of  an  adjacent  tree,  she  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears.  The  convulsive  movement  of  her  shoulders 
and  stifled  sobs  denoted  the  violence  of  her  emotion. 
M.  de  Buxieres,  alarmed  at  this  outbreak,  which  he 
thought  exaggerated,  felt  a  return  of  his  old  misgivings. 
He  was  jealous  now  of  the  dead  man  whom  she  was  so 
openly  lamenting.  Her  continued  weeping  annoyed  him ; 
he  tried  to  arrest  her  tears  by  addressing  some  consola- 
tory remarks  to  her;  but,  at  the  very  first  word,  she 
turned  away,  mounted  precipitately  the  kitchen-stairs, 
and  disappeared,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  Some 
mintftes  after,  La  Guite  brought  a  message  to  de  Bux- 
ieres that  Reine  wished  to  be  alone,  and  begged  him  to 
excuse  her. 

He  took  his  departure,  disconcerted,  downhearted, 
and  ready  to  weep  himself,  over  the  crumbling  of  his 
hopes.  As  he  was  nearing  the  first  outlying  houses 
of  the  village,  he  came  across  the  Abbe  Pernot, 
who  was  striding  along  at  a  great  rate,  toward  the 
chateau. 

[224] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  priest,  "how  are  you,  Monsieur 
de  Buxieres,  I  was  just  going  over  to  see  you.  Is  it  true 
that  you  have  received  bad  news?" 

Julien  nodded  his  head  affirmatively,  and  informed 
the  cure  of  the  sad  notice  he  had  received.  The  Abbe's 
countenance  lengthened,  his  mouth  took  on  a  saddened 
expression,  and  during  the  next  few  minutes  he  main- 
tained an  attitude  of  condolence. 

"Poor  fellow!"  he  sighed,  with  a  slight  nasal  intona- 
tion, "he  did  not  have  a  fair  chance!  To  have  to  leave 
us  at  twenty-six  years  of  age,  and  in  full  health,  it  is 
very  hard.  And  such  a  jolly  companion;  such  a  clever 
shot!" 

Finally,  not  being  naturally  of  a  melancholy  turn  of 
mind,  nor  able  to  remain  long  in  a  mournful  mood,  he 
consoled  himself  with  one  of  the  pious  commonplaces 
which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  using  for  the  benefit  of 
others:  "The  Lord  is  just  in  all  His  dealings,  and  holy 
in  all  His  works;  He  reckons  the  hairs  of  our  heads,  and 
our  destinies  are  in  His  hands.  We  shall  celebrate  a  fine 
high  mass  for  the  repose  of  Claudet's  soul." 

He  coughed,  and  raised  his  eyes  toward  Julien. 

"  I  wished,"  continued  he,  "  to  see  you  for  two  reasons, 
Monsieur  de  Buxieres:  first  of  all,  to  hear  about  Claudet, 
and  secondly,  to  speak  to  you  on  a  matter — a  very  deli- 
cate matter — which  concerns  you,  but  which  also  affects 
the  safety  of  another  person  and  the  dignity  of  the 
parish." 

Julien  was  gazing  at  him  with  a  bewildered  air. 
The  cure  pushed  open  the  little  park  gate,  and  passing 
through,  added: 

i5  [225] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

"Let  us  go  into  your  place;  we  shall  be  better  able  to 
talk  over  the  matter." 

When  they  were  underneath  the  trees,  the  Abbe 
resumed : 

"Monsieur  de  Buxieres,  do  you  know  that  you  are  at 
this  present  time  giving  occasion  for  the  tongues  of  my 
parishioners  to  wag  more  than  is  at  all  reasonable? 
Oh!"  continued  he,  replying  to  a  remonstrating  gesture 
of  his  companion,  "it  is  unpremeditated  on  your  part, 
I  am  sure,  but,  all  the  same,  they  talk  about  you — and 
about  Reine." 

"About  Mademoiselle  Vincart?"  exclaimed  Julien, 
indignantly,  "what  can  they  say  about  her?" 

"A  great  many  things  which  are  displeasing  to  me. 
They  speak  of  your  having  sprained  your  ankle  while 
in  the  company  of  Reine  Vincart;  of  your  return  home 
in  her  wagon;  of  your  frequent  visits  to  La  Thuiliere, 
and  I  don't  know  what  besides.  And  as  mankind, 
especially  the  female  portion,  is  more  disposed  to  dis- 
cover evil  than  good,  they  say  you  are  compromising  this 
young  person.  Now,  Reine  is  living,  as  one  may  say, 
alone  and  unprotected .  It  behooves  me ,  therefore ,  as  her 
pastor,  to  defend  her  against  her  own  weakness.  That 
is  the  reason  why  I  have  taken  upon  myself  to  beg  you  to 
be  more  circumspect,  and  not  trifle  with  her  reputation." 

"Her  reputation?"  repeated  Julien,  with  irritation. 
"I  do  not  understand  you,  Monsieur  le  Cure*!" 

"You  don't,  hey !  Why,  I  explain  my  meaning  pretty 
clearly.  Human  beings  are  weak;  it  is  easy  to  injure 
a  girl's  reputation,  when  you  try  to  make  yourself  agree- 
able, knowing  you  can  not  marry  her." 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

"And  why  could  I  not  marry  her?"  inquired  Julien, 
coloring  deeply. 

"  Because  she  is  not  in  your  own  class,  and  you  would 
not  love  her  enough  to  overlook  the  disparity,  if  mar- 
riage became  necessary." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  returned  Julien,  with 
violence.  "I  have  no  such  foolish  prejudices,  and  the 
obstacles  would  not  come  from  my  side.  But,  rest  easy, 
Monsieur,"  continued  he,  bitterly,  "the  danger  exists 
only  in  the  imagination  of  your  parishioners.  Reine  has 
never  cared  for  me!  It  was  Claudet  she  loved!" 

"Hm,  hm!"  interjected  the  cure,  dubiously. 

"You  would  not  doubt  it,"  insisted  de  Buxieres, 
provoked  at  the  Abbe's  incredulous  movements  of  his 
head,  "if  you  had  seen  her,  as  I  saw  her,  melt  into  tears 
when  I  told  her  of  Sejournant's  death.  She  did  not  even 
wait  until  I  had  turned  my  back  before  she  broke  out  in 
her  lamentations.  My  presence  was  of  very  small  ac- 
count. Ah!  she  has  but  too  cruelly  made  me  feel  how 
little  she  cares  for  me!" 

"You  love  her  very  much,  then?"  demanded  the 
Abbe,  slyly,  an  almost  imperceptible  smile  curving  his 
lips. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  love  her,"  exclaimed  he,  impetuously; 
then  coloring  and  drooping  his  head.  "But  it  is  very 
foolish  of  me  to  betray  myself,  since  Reine  cares  nothing 
at  all  for  me!" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  during  which  the 
cure  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  a  tiny  box  of  cherry 
wood. 

"Monsieur  de  Buxieres,"  said  he,  with  a  particularly 
[227] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

oracular  air,  "Claudet  is  dead,  and  the  dead,  like  the 
absent,  are  always  in  the  wrong.  But  who  is  to  say 
whether  you  are  not  mistaken  concerning  the  nature  of 
Reine's  unhappiness?  I  will  have  that  cleared  up  this 
very  day.  Good-night;  keep  quiet  and  behave  prop- 
erly." 

Thereupon  he  took  his  departure,  but,  instead  of 
returning  to  the  parsonage,  he  directed  his  steps  hur- 
riedly toward  La  Thuiliere.  Notwithstanding  a  vig- 
orous opposition  from  La  Guite,  he  made  use  of  his 
pastoral  authority  to  penetrate  into  Reine's  apartment, 
where  he  shut  himself  up  with  her.  What  he  said  to 
her  never  was  divulged  outside  the  small  chamber  where 
the  interview  took  place.  He  must,  however,  have 
found  words  sufficiently  eloquent  to  soften  her  grief,  for 
when  he  had  gone  away  the  young  girl  descended  to  the 
garden  with  a  soothed  although  still  melancholy  mien. 
She  remained  a  long  time  in  meditation  in  the  thicket  of 
roses,  but  her  meditations  had  evidently  no  bitterness  in 
them,  and  a  miraculous  serenity  seemed  to  have  spread 
itself  over  her  heart  like  a  beneficent  balm. 

A  few  days  afterward,  during  the  unpleasant  coolness 
of  one  of  those  mornings,  white  with  dew,  which  are  the 
peculiar  privilege  of  the  mountain-gorges  in  Langres, 
the  bells  of  Vivey  tolled  for  the  dead,  announcing  the 
celebration  of  a  mass  in  memory  of  Claudet.  The  grand 
chasserot  having  been  a  universal  favorite  with  every  one 
in  the  neighborhood,  the  church  was  crowded.  The 
steep  descent  from  the  high  plain  overlooked  the  village. 
They  came  thronging  in  through  the  wooded  glens  of 
Praslay,  by  the  Auberive  road  and  the  forests  of  Char- 

[228] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

bonniere;  companions  in  hunting  and  social  amuse- 
ments, foresters  and  wearers  of  sabots,  campers  in  the 
woods,  inmates  of  the  farms  embedded  in  the  forests — 
none  failed  to  answer  the  call.  The  rustic,  white-walled 
nave  was  too  narrow  to  contain  them  all,  and  the  surplus 
flowed  into  the  street.  Arbeltier,  the  village  carpenter, 
had  erected  a  rudimentary  catafalque,  which  was  draped 
in  black  and  bordered  with  wax  tapers,  and  placed  in 
front  of  the  altar  steps.  On  the  pall,  embroidered  with 
silver  tears,  were  arranged  large  bunches  of  wild  flowers, 
sent  from  La  Thuiliere,  and  spreading  an  aromatic  odor 
of  fresh  verdure  around.  The  Abbe  Pernot,  wearing 
his  insignia  of  mourning,  officiated.  Through  the  side 
windows  were  seen  portions  of  the  blue  sky;  the  barking 
of  the  dogs  and  singing  of  birds  were  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance; and  even  while  listening  to  the  Dies  iray  the  cure 
could  not  help  thinking  of  the  robust  and  bright  young 
fellow  who,  only  the  year  previous,  had  been  so  joyously 
traversing  the  woods,  escorted  by  Charbonneau  and 
Montagnard,  and  who  was  now  lying  in  a  foreign  land, 
in  the  common  pit  of  the  little  cemetery  of  Monte- 
bello. 

As  each  verse  of  the  funeral  service  was  intoned, 
Manette  S£journant,  prostrate  on  her  prie-dieu,  inter- 
rupted the  monotonous  chant  with  tumultuous  sobs. 
Her  grief  was  noisy  and  unrestrained,  but  those  present 
sympathized  more  with  the  quiet  though  profound  sor- 
row of  Reine  Vincart.  The  black  dress  of  the  young 
girl  contrasted  painfully  with  the  dead  pallor  of  her 
complexion.  She  emitted  no  sighs,  but,  now  and  then, 
a  contraction  of  the  lips,  a  trembling  of  the  hands  testi- 

[  229  ] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

fied  to  the  inward  struggle,  and  a  single  tear  rolled 
slowly  down  her  cheek. 

From  the  corner  where  he  had  chosen  to  stand  alone, 
Julien  de  Buxieres  observed,  with  pain,  the  mute  elo- 
quence of  her  profound  grief,  and  became  once  more  a 
prey  to  the  fiercest  jealousy.  He  could  not  help  envying 
the  fate  of  this  deceased,  who  was  mourned  in  so  tender 
a  fashion.  Again  the  mystery  of  an  attachment  so  evi- 
dent and  so  tenacious,  followed  by  so  strange  a  rupture, 
tormented  his  uneasy  soul.  "She  must  have  loved 
Claudet,  since  she  is  in  mourning  for  him,"  he  kept  re- 
peating to  himself,  "and  if  she  loved  him,  why  this 
rupture,  which  she  herself  provoked,  and  which  drove 
the  unhappy  man  to  despair?" 

At  the  close  of  the  absolution,  all  the  assistants  defiled 
close  beside  Julien,  who  was  now  standing  in  front  of 
the  catafalque.  When  it  came  to  Reine  Vincart's  turn, 
she  reached  out  her  hand  to  M.  de  Buxieres;  at  the  same 
time,  she  gazed  at  him  with  such  friendly  sadness,  and 
infused  into  the  clasp  of  her  hand  something  so  cordial 
and  intimate  that  the  young  man's  ideas  were  again 
completely  upset.  He  seemed  to  feel  as  if  it  were  an 
encouragement  to  speak.  When  the  men  and  women 
had  dispersed,  and  a  surging  of  the  crowd  brought  him 
nearer  to  Reine,  he  resolved  to  follow  her,  without  re- 
gard to  the  question  of  what  people  would  say,  or  the 
curious  eyes  that  might  be  watching  him. 

A  happy  chance  came  in  his  way.  Reine  Vincart  had 
gone  home  by  the  path  along  the  outskirts  of  the  wood 
and  the  park  enclosure.  Julien  went  hastily  back  to 
the  cMteau,  crossed  the  gardens,  and  followed  an  inte- 

[230] 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

c 

rior  avenue,  parallel  to  the  exterior  one,  from  which  he 
was  separated  only  by  a  curtain  of  linden  and  nut  trees. 
He  could  just  distinguish,  between  the  leafy  branches, 
Reine's  black  gown,  as  she  walked  rapidly  along  under 
the  ash-trees.  At  the  end  of  the  enclosure,  he  pushed 
open  a  little  gate,  and  came  abruptly  out  on  the  forest 
path. 

On  beholding  him  standing  in  advance  of  her,  the 
young  girl  appeared  more  surprised  than  displeased. 
After  a  momentary  hesitation,  she  walked  quietly  toward 
him. 

" Mademoiselle  Reine,"  said  he  then,  gently,  "will  you 
allow  me  to  accompany  you  as  far  as  La  Thuiliere?" 

"Certainly,"  she  replied,  briefly. 

She  felt  a  presentiment  that  something  decisive  was 
about  to  take  place  between  her  and  Julien,  and  her 
voice  trembled  as  she  replied.  Profiting  by  the  tacit 
permission,  de  Buxieres  walked  beside  Reine ;  the  path 
was  so  narrow  that  their  garments  rustled  against  each 
other,  yet  he  did  not  seem  in  haste  to  speak,  and  the 
silence  was  interrupted  only  by  the  occasional  flight  of 
a  bird,  or  the  crackling  of  some  falling  branches. 

"Reine,"  said  Julien,  suddenly,  "you  have  so  often 
and  so  kindly  extended  to  me  the  hand  of  friendship, 
that  I  have  decided  to  speak  frankly,  and  open  my  heart 
to  you.  I  love  you,  Reine,  and  have  loved  you  for  a 
long  time.  But  I  have  been  so  accustomed  to  hide  what 
I  think,  I  know  so  little  how  to  conduct  myself  in  the 
varying  circumstances  of  life,  and  I  have  so  much  mis- 
trust of  myself,  that  I  never  have  dared  to  tell  you  before 
now.  This  will  explain  to  you  my  stupid  behavior.  I 


ANDK&  THEURIET 

am  suffering  the  penalty  to-day,  for  while  I  was  hesitat- 
ing, another  took  my  place;  although  he  is  dead,  his 
shadow  stands  between  us,  and  I  know  that  you  love 
him  still." 

She  listened  to  him  with  bent  head  and  half-closed 
eyes,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  violently. 

"I  never  have  loved  him  in  the  way  you  suppose," 
she  replied,  simply. 

A  gleam  of  light  shot  through  Julien's  melancholy 
blue  eyes.  Both  remained  silent.  The  green  pasture- 
lands,  bathed  in  the  full  noonday  sun,  were  lying  before 
them.  The  grasshoppers  were  chirping  in  the  bushes, 
and  the  skylarks  were  soaring  aloft  with  their  joyous 
songs.  Julien  was  endeavoring  to  extract  the  exact 
meaning  from  the  reply  he  had  just  heard.  He  was 
partly  reassured,  but  some  points  had  still  to  be  cleared 
up. 

"But  still,"  said  he,  "you  are  lamenting  his  loss." 

A  melancholy  smile  flitted  for  an  instant  over  Reine's 
pure,  rosy  lips. 

"Are  you  jealous  of  my  tears?"  said  she,  softly. 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  exclaimed,  with  sudden  exultation,  "I 
love  you  so  entirely  that  I  can  not  help  envying  Claudet 
his  share  in  your  affections!  If  his  death  causes  you 
such  poignant  regret,  he  must  have  been  nearer  and 
dearer  to  you  than  those  that  survive." 

"You  might  reasonably  suppose  otherwise,"  replied 
she,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "since  I  refused  to  marry 
him." 

He  shook  his  head,  seemingly  unable  to  accept  that 
positive  statement. 


A  WOODLAND  QUEEN 

Then  Reine  began  to  reflect  that  a  man  of  his  dis- 
trustful and  despondent  temperament  would,  unless  the 
whole  truth  were  revealed  to  him,  be  forevermore  tor- 
mented by  morbid  and  injurious  misgivings.  She  knew 
he  loved  her,  and  she  wished  him  to  love  her  in  entire 
faith  and  security.  She  recalled  the  last  injunctions  she 
had  received  from  the  Abbe*  Pernot,  and,  leaning  toward 
Julien,  with  tearful  eyes  and  cheeks  burning  with  shame, 
she  whispered  in  his  ear  the  secret  of  her  close  relation- 
ship to  Claudet. 

This  painful  and  agitating  confidence  was  made  in  so 
low  a  voice  as  to  be  scarcely  distinguished  from  the  soft 
humming  of  the  insects,  or  the  gentle  twittering  of  the 
birds. 

The  sun  was  shining  everywhere ;  the  woods  were  as 
full  of  verdure  and  blossoms  as  on  the  day  when  the 
young  man  had  manifested  his  passion  with  such  savage 
violence.  Hardly  had  the  last  words  of  her  avowal 
expired  on  Reine's  lips,  when  Julien  de  Buxifcres  threw 
his  arms  around  her  and  fondly  kissed  away  the  tears 
from  her  eyes. 

This  time  he  was  not  repelled. 


MLLE.   DESROCHES 


MLLE.   DESROCHES 


CHAPTER  I 

LITTLE  THERfSE 

that  day — the  last  day  of  July,  1850 
— the  little  town  of  St.  Clement  was 
bathed  in  a  flood  of  glorious  sunlight, 
and  long,  golden  rays  stretched  down 
the  main  street. 

Among  all  these  sleepy  houses  of 
the  town,  there  was  one  that  looked 
especially  shut  up  and  forsaken. 
The  main  room  of  the  second  story  contained  noth- 
ing bu<:   old  oak  shelves,  almost  bending  under  the 
weight  of  countless  books. 

The  straw- bottomed  chairs  had,  strangely  enough, 
well  carved  wooden  backs,  and  the  one  leather  chair 
in  the  room  was  filled  by  the  owner  of  the  house,  Dr. 
Jacques  Desroches. 

He  was  only  fifty-five  years  old,  but  looked  older; 
tall,  lean,  and  stiff  in  his  carriage,  his  face  was  deeply 
lined;  he  was  almost  bald.  His  almost  painfully  rigid 
features  relaxed  only  for  a  moment  now  and  then,  when 
a  noise  from  the  window  brought  to  his  bitter  lips  a 
grimace  of  annoyance. 

The  noise  was  not  continuous,  nor  was  it  more  than 
[237] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

a  confused  murmur  of  words  which  were  hardly  articu- 
lated. At  last  the  old  man  could  endure  it  no  longer; 
he  gave  his  chair  a  half  turn,  then  rose  all  of  a  sud- 
den, and  raising  one  of  the  window-shades  said,  in  a 
stern  voice,  "Therese!" 

A  flood  of  light  inundated  the  room,  and  revealed 
the  guilty  couple  to  be  a  young  girl  of  sixteen  and  a 
dog! 

The  girl  was  sitting  on  a  low  chair  in  the  deep 
embrasure  of  the  window,  and  with  one  arm  raised 
high  in  the  air  she  was  waving  an  old  glove  which  the 
dog— a  beautiful  Royal  Dane  with  a  tawny  skin — 
crouching  on  his  hind  legs  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
forefeet,  was  coveting  with  his  keen  eyes,  while  uttering 
a  low,  half -smothered  barking. 

"Can  you  not  remain  quiet  for  a  moment?"  Dr. 
Desroches  asked  her,  very  angrily;  "your  talking 
annoys  me  terribly!" 

At  this  sudden  appearance,  both  the  guilty  parties 
had  paused  penitently.  The  young  girl  dropped  her 
glove  and  came  out  of  her  concealment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  papa!"  she  said,  "I  did  not 
know  I  was  making  any  noise.  It  is  hard  to  keep  still 
so  long!  We  were  trying  to  find  some  amusement, 
Dacho  and  I,  till  the  time  for  our  walk  should  come." 

"Time  is  never  long  when  we  know  how  to  use  it 
properly,"  replied  the  doctor;  "take  a  book  and  keep 
quiet!  I  have  a  horror  of  idle  people!" 

The  young  girl  went  to  one  of  the  shelves  of  the  li- 
brary, chose  a  quarto  volume  and  sat  down  in  a  corner. 

Dr.  Desroches  did  really  suffer  from  an  old  wound 
[238] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

in  his  heart,  which  had  been  so  badly  cured  that  it  bled 
anew  at  the  slightest  provocation.  He  had  married, 
when  thirty-seven,  a  wife  who  was  much  younger  than 
he,  and  she  had  deceived  him.  To  avoid  scandal  he 
had  at  first  borne  it  all  in  silence,  trying  to  save  appear- 
ances, but  one  fine  day — it  was  now  seven  years  ago— 
Madame  Desroches  had  run  away  with  a  country 
neighbor.  The  doctor  might  have  looked  upon  the 
whole  thing  as  a  mere  bad  dream,  if  she  had  not  left 
behind  her  a  child,  who  recalled  to  the  poor  injured 
man  all  the  bitterness  and  all  the  griefs  of  the  past. 
During  the  first  years  the  sight  of  this  child  had  been 
so  unbearable  to  him  that  he  had  sent  her  down  into 
Lorraine,  the  province  from  which  her  nurse  had  come. 
The  father  and  the  mother  of  this  woman  were  simple 
farmers,  but  excellent  people;  they  had  a  great  fond- 
ness for  little  Therese,  and  were  delighted  to  keep  her 
with  them.  Here  the  young  maiden  had  lived  just  as 
other  simple  country  people  live,  and  it  was  with  sin- 
cere regret  that  she  left  her  friends  to  go  for  three 
years  to  a  convent,  where  her  education  was  to  be 
completed.  It  was  only  when  she  was  sixteen  years 
old  that  her  father  thought  it  best  to  call  her  back  to 
him  at  St.  Clement. 

These  thoughts  filled  the  doctor's  mind,  while  The- 
rese turned  the  leaves  of  her  book,  unconscious  of  the 
tempest  that  was  brewing  in  his  head. 

While  the  poor  girl  was  absorbed  in  mournful 
thoughts,  everything  around  her  had  relapsed  into 
absolute  silence.  An  hour  went  by;  then  suddenly  in 
this  deep  silence  a  feeble  tinkling  of  small  bells,  the 

[239] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

rumbling  of  heavy  wheels  formed  an  echo  in  the 
house  from  afar  off,  on  the  high  road.  Therese  raised 
her  head  and  listened. 

"Ah!"  she  murmured,  "it  is  the  mail!" 

She  was  not  mistaken;  the  stage  with  its  four  horses 
made  a  tremendous  ado  on  the  rough  pavement  of  St. 
Clement,  and  seemed  to  rouse  the  whole  little  sleepy 
town.  Suddenly  shutters  were  heard  to  open,  people 
ran  out  and  questions  were  interchanged. 

"Here  is  the  stage!"  exclaimed  the  young  girl, 
throwing  down  the  book  she  had  been  reading.  Then 
rising  impetuously,  without  minding  what  her  father 
might  think  of  it,  she  drew  the  curtain,  opened  the 
window,  and  looked  out  full  of  curiosity. 

Dr.  Desroches,  yielding  less  to  curiosity  than  to  that 
mechanical  old  habit  which  had  for  so  many  years 
made  the  coming  of  the  stage  the  great  event  of  the 
twenty-four  hours,  rose  also  and  followed  his  daughter 
to  the  window. 

By  the  side  of  the  conductor,  a  young  man,  apparently 
about  twenty-two  years  old,  flushed  from  his  efforts 
to  blow  the  long  horn,  seemed  to  attract  the  attention 
of  the  citizens  looking  out  of  the  windows.  He  was 
pointed  out  to  others,  he  was  welcomed  with  a  nod  of 
the  head,  and  gayly  returned  the  compliment  by  rais- 
ing his  hat.  Without  being  handsome,  he  looked 
winsome  with  his  large  bright  eyes  and  his  curly, 
blond  moustache.  Th£rese,  who  did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  these  familiar  greetings,  turned  round  with 
an  air  of  inquiry  to  Dr.  Desroches. 

The  young  traveller  on  the  roof  of  the  stage  had  not 
[240] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

escaped  the  physician's  observant  eye;  he  slightly 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled  sarcastically,  and  said, 
in  his  most  biting  tones: 

"Ha!  ha!  Here  is  young  Maupin  coming  home  to 
the  dove-cot !  if  dove-cot  is  right  name  for  the  roost  of 
a  bird  of  prey  such  as  his  estimable  father  is." 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Therese.  "I  see  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Maupin  standing  before  the  door  of  the 
Hotel  de  France.  They  evidently  came  to  meet  him!" 

There  was  really  a  couple  standing  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  near  the  hotel  stables;  they  were  busy  sending 
signals  to  the  stage.  The  lady  was  waving  her  hand- 
kerchief, while  the  husband  held  his  cane  as  high  as  he 
could  and  shook  it  in  the  air. 

The  heavy,  lumbering  machine  had  at  last  reached 
its  resting-place  at  the  gates  of  the  stable-yard,  and 
the  young  man,  descending  leisurely  from  the  eleva- 
tion on  which  he  was  perched,  had  embraced  his  mother 
and  then  received  his  father's  warm  welcome,  who 
seemed  to  be  happy  to  see  his  son  and  heir  return. 
He  seized  his  two  hands  and  then  examined  him  from 
top  to  bottom. 

"Upon  my  word!"  said  Dr.  Desroches,  "how  Papa 
Maupin  pulls  about  his  progeny!  He  looks  at  his 
young  man's  hands  to  see  if  the  claws  have  grown 
finely.  Be  content,  sparrow-hawk!  Blood  will  tell! 
He'll  have  your  beak  and  your  talons!" 

"These   Maupins,"  said   Therese,  turning  to  her 
father,  "are  very  rich  and  very  polite  to  every  one, 
yet  nobody  likes  them.    Why?    Are  they  not  honor- 
able in  their  business  transactions?" 
16  [  241  ] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

Dr.  Desroches  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Honorable?  What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried,  full 
of  sarcasm.  "A  man  is  always  honorable  who  does 
the  work  for  which  he  is  fit.  In  this  world  we  must 
either  cheat  or  be  cheated,  eat  or  be  eaten.  The 
Maupins  belong  to  the  race  of  men  who  eat,  that  is 
all!  Let  us  go  back!  The  sight  of  these  people  un- 
nerves me!" 


[242] 


CHAPTER  II 

A  NEW  FACE 

OME,  my  dear,  you  have  talked 
enough  for  to-day!  Don't  you  see 
that  your  son  can  hardly  keep 
awake?" 

The  dinner  at  the  Maupins'  had 
lasted  long.  The  newcomer,  Stephen 
Maupin,  looked  a  little  dazed,  partly 
by  the  long  journey  in  the  uncom- 
fortable diligence,  and  partly,  no  doubt,  by  the  copious 
dinner,  accompanied  by  capital  Bordeaux  wines.  He 
only  replied  in  monosyllables  to  his  father's  questions, 
and  smiled,  while  he  looked  with  an  air  of  ineffable  self- 
content  at  the  faces  of  his  parents  aglow  with  admira- 
tion, and  at  the  familiar  furniture  of  the  room. 

"He  has  hardly  slept  since  he  left  Paris,"  said  the 
anxious  mother.     "He  needs  rest,  and  you  will  have 
plenty  of  time  to  talk  to-morrow!" 
M.  Maupin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Worn  out  by  one  sleepless  night  and  seven  hours' 
travel!    At  his  age  I  walked  my  twenty  miles  a  day 
and  after  my  return  I  worked  still  till  midnight!    The 
present  generation  is  far  inferior  to  ours!    Come,  Mon- 
sieur Attorney,  go  to  bed!     Good-night!    While  your 
mamma  will  tuck  you  in  your  bed,  I'll  go  down  to 

[243] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

see  that  all  the  doors  are  locked  and  the  clerks  have 
left  nothing  lying  about!" 

He  lighted  a  candle,  and  going  down  to  the  first  story 
he  entered  the  office  and  opened  the  windows  to  see  if 
the  shutters  were  fastened;  and  closed  operations  by 
reading  over  the  correspondence  of  the  day.  All  this 
took  him  a  full  hour,  and  when  he  returned  to  his  own 
room,  he  found  that  Madame  Maupin  had  gone  to  bed, 
but  was  not  yet  asleep.  Her  delicate,  fair-haired  little 
head,  framed  in  the  rich  laces  of  her  coquettish  night- 
cap, contrasted  charmingly  with  the  white  pillows. 

"Well,"  asked  M.  Maupin,  as  he  blew  out  his 
candle,  after  emptying  his  pockets  on  the  night-table, 
"is  the  boy  sleeping  soundly?" 

"Yes.    The  journey  has  tired  him!" 

"Pshaw!  to-morrow  there  will  be  no  trace  left! 
He  has  made  no  bad  debts  and  he  has  come  back  in 
good  health.  That  is  the  most  important  thing.  I 
think  he  lookst  well." 

"Yes,"  replied  Madame  Maupin,  with  much  satis- 
faction, "he  has  developed  well  in  Paris,  and  is  almost 
a  handsome  young  man." 

"A  man  is  always  handsome  when  he  has  money 
in  his  pockets,"  sententiously  exclaimed  the  husband, 
"and  I  have  enough  to  make  him  as  handsome  as  an 
angel!  Without  counting  what  I  mean  to  make  in 
the  future,"  he  continued,  cheerfully,  cracking  his 
short,  stubby  fingers  with  their  hairy  joints.  "I  have 
not  played  all  my  cards  yet,  and  have  a  few  trumps 
left  in  my  hand." 

He  had  begun  life  as  a  contractor,  building  houses; 
[244] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

then,  his  success  encouraging  him,  he  had  enlarged  the 
circle  of  his  operations,  and  now  he  was  considered 
one  of  the  most  skilful  dealers  in  money  in  the  whole 
province.  He  owned  much  real  estate,  and  was  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  leading  men  of  St.  Clement. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "I  am  not  at  the  end  yet. 
Your  son,  Laura,  shall  have  enough  to  buy  himself  a 
pair  of  yellow  kid  gloves  every  day  of  his  life,  and  some 
other  things  besides!" 

"Fie!"  exclaimed  Madame  Maupin,  knowing  full 
well  what  her  husband's  sarcastic  smile  and  laughing 
tone  meant  to  suggest.  She  added: 

"Did  you  have  him  admitted  to  the  bar  in  order  to 
lead  such  a  life?" 

"There  is  a  time  for  all  things,"  replied  Simon,  "and 
I  see  no  harm  in  his  enjoying  life  a  little  before  he  goes 
to  work  in  earnest." 

"You  had  much  better  initiate  him  at  once  into 
business;  he  might  assist  you  in  managing  the  bank 
till  he  will  take  it  altogether  in  hand." 

M.  Maupin,  started  up,  and  cried,  angrily: 

"My  business  concerns  me  alone;  I  do  not  jnean 
yet  awhile  to  fold  my  arms  and  give  up  the  ship! 
Upon  my  word,  I  should  think  so  far  I  have  not  man- 
aged so  very  badly!  Your  son  would  comprehend 
very  little  of  my  operations;  his  thoughts  are  too  im- 
mature yet!  First  let  him  learn  at  his  own  cost  what 
life  is,  and  then  we'll  see " 

"And  if  he  kicks  over  the  traces  in  the  mean  time?" 

"So  much  the  better!  It  will  teach  him  caution; 
I  have  known  people  as  stiff  as  bars  of  iron,  veritable 

[245] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

Don  Quixotes  as  far  as  their  principles  were  concerned: 
after  they  had  once  passed  through  the  hands  of  pretty 
women  and  the  constable,  they  came  to  me  as  supple 
as  old  gloves !  When  Stephen  shall  have  sown  his  wild 
oats,  I  will  put  his  nose  down  upon  the  ledger — not 
before!" 

Madame  Maupin  shook  her  little  head. 

"You  need  not  try  to  persuade  me,  Simon.  All 
that  is  not  moral!" 

M.  Maupin  paced  to  and  fro,  with  his  hands  in  his 
trousers'  pockets;  he  turned  round,  faced  his  wife  on  her 
pillow,  and  said,  in  a  peremptory  tone :  "  It  is  practical ! " 

But  the  lady  did  not  give  up  the  battle.  She  would 
have  preferred  to  see  Stephen  well  married,  so  as  to 
gain  some  prestige,  some  consideration  for  the  firm 
"Simon  Maupin." 

"Why  could  he  not  marry  one  of  the  girls  of  the 
neighboring  nobility?" 

"Girls  without  money?" 

"There  are  some  who  belong  to  old  families — that 
is  always  something!" 

M.  Maupin  whistled  contemptuously.  "'Too  lean! 
For  a  young  man  in  our  boy's  condition  to  exchange 
his  hard  dollars  for  a  name,  would  be  folly.  I  do  not 
mean  that  for  you,  Laura,"  he  added  quickly,  seeing 
in  her  eyes  a  flash  of  indignation,  "when  I  took  you  in 
your  father's  house,  the  position  was  not  the  same,  and 
for  a  master-mason,  as  I  was  then,  your  old  name  was 
a  good  enough  match — besides,  you  were  clever;  you 
had  a  regular  talent  for  business,  and  you  have  helped 
me  essentially." 

[246] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"If  my  advice  has  now  and  then  proved  useful  to 
you,"  resumed  Madame  Maupin,  much  put  out,  "I 
wish  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  listen  to  me 
to-night!" 

Then  she  repeated  to  him,  in  her  bland  and  insinuat- 
ing voice,  that  what  their  house  needed  most  at  this 
time  was  respectability.  She  did  not  indulge  in  any 
illusions  on  that  subject.  She  knew  very  well  that  in 
St.  Clement  M.  Maupin  was  not  highly  respected. 
"They  would  not  speak  of  us  so  lightly,"  she  con- 
cluded, "if  we  were  connected  with  one  of  these  pious 
and  highly  respected  families." 

"Would  I  have  to  become  pious,  too?"  the  old 
mason  asked,  sarcastically. 

"Great  Heavens!  would  that  be  very  bad,  do  you 
think?"  asked  his  wife. 

"Thank  you,  no!    I  do  not  care  to  hear  mass." 

"That  is  your  weak  side.  You  are  not  religious, 
and  there  you  are  wrong.  Believe  me,  infidelity  is  no 
longer  the  fashion,  and  the  day  is  not  very  far  off  when 
an  irreligious  man  and  a  disorderly  man  will  be  con- 
sidered the  same  thing!" 

"You  might  just  as  well  call  me  at  once  a  Socialist!" 
cried  the  banker,  laughing  outright. 

"You  laugh,  but  I  know  better  than  you,  and  I  fore- 
see many  things!" 

"Ha!   ha!    There  is  some  truth  in  that!"  he  said. 

"Don't  you  see  now,  Simon!"  said  his  wife,  triumph- 
antly. "Great  Heavens!  I  do  not  advise  you  all  of 
a  sudden  to  break  off  your  old  habits  and  to  go  to 
mass  to-morrow  morning " 

[247] 


ANDRfi  THEURIET 

"No,  that  would  be  rather  strong!" 

"But  I  advise  you  to  change  your  mode  of  life,  step 
by  step,  to  be  considerate  with  the  noble  families  and 
with  the  clergy,  and  gradually  to  get  rid  of  all  friends 
and  acquaintances  that  might  be  embarrassing.  Look 
here!"  she  suddenly  cried,  "will  you  give  me  carte 
blanche?  If  you  do,  I  promise  in  less  than  two  years 
you  shall  be  Mayor  of  the  town  and  hold  the  county 
in  the  hollow  of  your  hand!" 

Simon  Maupin  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  "Upon 
my  word,  Laura,  I  accept  it  as  a  good  omen.  You  are 
a  real  diplomat  in  your  lace  cap !  It  is  certain  that  the 
Conservatives  will  remain  in  power,  and  we  must  build 
upon  that  foundation.  Come,"  he  added,  getting  up, 
"we  must  lay  aside  the  Old  Adam!" 

He  slipped  gently  into  the  conjugal  bed.  "You  are 
a  little  bit  of  a  woman,"  he  murmured,  "but  I  was  a 
lucky  man  the  day  I  carried  you  away  from  your  dove- 
cot at  Saviot!" 

At  break  of  day  Stephen  was  waked  by  the  song 
of  a  young  boy  who  was  taking  his  horses  to  water. 
The  bells,  ringing  merrily  with  many  chimes,  re- 
minded him  that  this  was  Sunday,  and  that  he  had 
promised  his  mother  to  go  to  mass  with  her.  He 
dressed  himself  for  church,  and  punctually  at  ten  he 
offered  his  arm  to  Madame  Maupin.  She  also  had 
dressed  for  the  occasion,  and  felt  proud  of  having  pre- 
served so  youthful  an  appearance,  thanks  to  her  blond 
hair  and  slender  waist,  that  she  looked  like  her  son's 
elder  sister.  The  women,  on  their  knees,  whispered 
behind  their  books  as  Stephen  passed  by,  and  pointed 

[248] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

him  out  to  each  other  with  their  eyes  as  he  took  a  seat 
in  the  family  pew. 

Stephen  tried  to  recognize  the  young  girls  he  saw 
around  him,  or  to  put  the  right  name  to  the  right  face. 
In  the  midst  of  this  inquisitive  examination  his  eyes 
fell  upon  a  face  that  was  entirely  new  to  him.  Not 
far  from  the  railing  of  the  choir,  a  young  girl  was 
kneeling  upon  a  low  straw-chair,  her  head  a  little  bent, 
and  thus  showing  the  delicate  outline  of  her  neck,  the 
supple  sweep  of  her  waist,  the  swelling  of  the  puffed- 
out  petticoat  and  the  tiny  brown  boot. 

From  time  to  time  the  devout  girl  raised  her  head, 
and  then  Stephen  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pale  complex- 
ion, a  lively  eye,  and  a  charming  mouth  with  full  red 
lips.  This  unknown  face  troubled  him. 

After  the  last  "Let  us  pray!"  when  one  of  the  lower 
priests  turned  to  the  congregation  and  intoned  the 
welcome  Ite,  missa  est,  the  young  girl  remained  for  a 
few  moments  longer  on  her  knees;  then  she  rose  while 
the  organ  was  pouring  forth  its  gentlest  roar  to  ac- 
company the  exit.  Stephen,  who  had  risen  at  the 
same  time  and  was  following  his  mother,  did  not 
lose  sight  of  the  stranger,  and  managed  gradually  to 
diminish  the  distance  between  them.  When  they 
reached  the  holy-water  font,  he  looked  around  stealthi- 
ly and  saw  her  close  behind  them.  He  dipped  his 
fingers  into  the  shell,  touched  those  of  his  mother, 
and  then,  turning  round  and  bowing,  he  offered  the 
holy  water  to  the  young  girl  who  was  standing  close 
behind  him. 

To  his  great  amazement  the  unknown  person  drew 
[249] 


ANDIUfi  THEURIET 

back,  her  eyebrows  almost  met  in  indignation,  her  lips 
curved  with  disdain,  and  without  noticing  the  cour- 
teous offer  of  the  young  man,  she  passed  him,  dipped 
her  fingers  into  the  font,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
and  rapidly  went  down  the  steps  in  the  porch. 

This  incident  had  not  escaped  Madame  Maupin' s 
wide-awake  eyes;  she  blushed  slightly  and  bit  her  lips. 
When  they  were  outside,  Stephen,  greatly  mortified, 
asked  his  mother,  glancing  at  the  unknown  lady: 

"Who  is  this  young  stranger  who  refuses  to  take 
holy  water  from  my  hands?" 

"A  foolish  girl!"  replied  Madame  Maupin.  "She 
is  Doctor  Desroches's  daughter.  This  Desroches,  who 
is  one  of  the  high  and  mighty  in  town,  has  taken  it 
amiss  that  we  did  not  choose  him  as  our  physician,  and 
his  daughter  has  taken  up  her  father's  quarrel." 

"That  is  a  pity,  for  she  is  pretty!" 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  mother,  contemptuously,  "a 
country  beauty.  Her  father  had  banished  her  to  the 
country  after  her  mother's  deplorable  adventure,  and 
she  has,  no  doubt,  acquired  the  bad  manners  of  the 
people  with  whom  she  lived." 

They  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  market  when 
they  were  accosted  by  a  tall  young  man,  who  bowed 
to  Madame  Maupin  and  to  Stephen. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  latter,  recognizing  one  of  his 
father's  upper  clerks,  "you  are  Celestin  Tiffin!  How 
are  you,  my  friend?" 

"So,  so!  Monsieur  Stephen,  so,  so!"  repeated  the 
young  man,  not  daring  to  put  on  his  hat  in  the  presence 
of  his  master's  only  son.  Stephen  shook  hands  with 

[250] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

him  and  made  him  cover  his  head.  The  clerk  obeyed. 
though  reluctantly,  for  he  was  a  great  formalist  and  al- 
most worshiped  the  family. 

"I  am  happy,  Monsieur  Stephen,"  he  began  again, 
walking  respectfully  about  two  steps  behind  Stephen, 
"I  am  happy  to  see  you  restored  to  us  and  in  good 
health.  Madame  Maupin  knows  how  impatiently  I 
have  been  waiting  for  you!" 

"And  why  were  you  so  impatient,  my  good  friend?-' 

"Why?    Has  not  your  father  told  you?" 

Stephen  shook  his  head. 

"He  probably  thought  it  more  proper  that  I  should 
announce  it  to  you  myself — I  am  going  to  be  married, 
Monsieur  Stephen,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  which 
showed  every  one  of  his  teeth — "I  am  going  to  marry 
Mademoiselle  Bardin,  the  daughter  of  the  man  who 
farms  your  beautiful  estate  of  Brenil.  The  contract 
has  been  drawn  up  these  three  months  and  we  have 
waited  only  for  your  return  to  fix  the  day — and  speak- 
ing of  this,  permit  me  to  submit  to  you  a  request " 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,  and  be  sure,  Celestin,  that  it  is 
granted  at  once." 

"I  had  already  mentioned  my  request  to  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Maupin — you  would  overwhelm  me 
with  kindness,  Monsieur  Stephen,  if  you  would  honor 
me  on  this  occasion  by  being  my  best  man — I  know  it 
is  asking  of  you  a  great  favor,  but  we  should  all  of  us 
be  so  happy — my  betrothed  and  her  family  would  be 
so  proud,  that  I  think  you  can  hardly  refuse  me!" 

"How  can  I?  I  shall  be  delighted,  my  dear  Celes- 
tin! When  is  the  wedding?" 

[251] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"They  are  going  to  marry  us  day  after  to-morrow, 
Tuesday,  and  if  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  reach 
Brenil  toward  ten  o'clock,  I  would  come  to  meet  you 
on  the  road!" 

Stephen  promised  to  be  punctual.  Celcstin  was 
overwhelming  in  compliments  and  thanks,  bowed,  and 
left  them,  greatly  delighted. 

"What  a  good  creature!"  said  Stephen. 

"Yes — rather  weak,  but  devoted  to  us,  and  that  is 
the  main  point!" 


CHAPTER  III 

A  RUSTIC  WEDDING 

N  Tuesday  morning,  before  eight 
o'clock,  Stephen  was  gayly  walking 
down  the  turnpike  to  Brenil. 

The  sight  of  the  lonely  landscape, 
so  calm  and  green  and  picturesque, 
awakened  in  the  young  man  all  his 
artistic  instincts,  and  he  began  to 
wish  he  might  have  sufficient  talent 
one  of  these  days  to  reproduce  its  charms  successfully. 
Absorbed  in  such  thoughts,  he  had  nearly  reached  the 
bridge,  when  he  heard  himself  hailed  and,  upon  turning 
his  head,  he  saw  the  sharp  outline  of  lean  M.  Tiffin 
on  the  green  background. 

"Am  I  behind  time?"  asked  Stephen. 
"Oh,  no!  no!  There  is  no  tune  lost,  Monsieur 
Stephen!  The  bride  is  still  dressing  and  the  musicians 
have  but  just  come.  You  see  I  could  not  sit  still  any 
longer,  and  so  I  came  out  to  meet  you.  Besides,  I  had 
another  reason!  I  have  prepared  a  great  surprise  for 
the  wedding-guests.  A  great  surprise,  I  assure  you! 
No  one  knows  as  yet  that  you  are  going  to  do  us  the 
honor  of  being  present.  They  do  not  expect  you  in 
the  least,  and  you  can  imagine  what  a  jubilee  there 
will  be  when  they  find  out  that  Monsieur  Maupin  is  to 
be  my  best  man.  Won't  that  make  a  sensation!" 

[253] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

Stephen  was  not  particularly  enchanted  at  being 
thus  produced  like  a  sort  of  official  personage;  he 
would  have  preferred  a  little  less  mystery  and  less 
ceremony,  but  the  bridegroom  was  so  perfectly  en- 
chanted that  he  had  not  the  courage  to  spoil  the  fun. 

Celestin  suddenly  stopped,  and  taking  the  young  Par- 
isian by  the  button  of  his  coat,  said  to  him  with  his 
pleasant,  frank  laugh:  "And  as  for  you,  Monsieur 
Stephen,  I  have  also  my  little  surprise  for  you!" 

"What?    Another  surprise?"  said  Stephen. 

"Yes,  and  a  very  good  one,  I  hope!"  said  Celestin; 
"you  shall  have  a  Valentine,  as  we  here  call  the  best 
man's  lady,  who  is  at  the  same  time  the  first  brides- 
maid. She  is  not  one  of  us,  but  a  charming  young 
lady  who  has  been  at  boarding-school,  and  will  not  be 
at  a  loss  how  to  talk  to  you,  I  am  sure.  Ha!  ha! 
I  tell  you!  Ha!  ha!  you  will  see!" 

"Tell  me  what  is  the  name  of  this  young  lady?" 

"No!  no!  You  are  not  to  know  it.  She  does  not 
know  your  name,  either!  I  have  managed  it  all  my- 
self and  kept  my  secret.  But  you  will  see — you  will 
thank  me  for  what  I  have  done." 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  given  yourself  much  trouble 
for  my  sake,  my  dear  Celestin!" 

"Trouble?  You  are  not  in  earnest!  It  is  an  honor 
for  us  to  have  at  our  wedding  the  son  of  the  man  to 
whom  I  owe  everything,  the  representative  of  the 
great  firm  of  Simon  Maupin.  If  I  were  to  live  a  hun- 
dred years,  Monsieur  Stephen,  I  would  never  forget 
the  day  when  your  father  first  took  me  into  his  office. 
What  would  I  have  been  without  him?  A  little  clerk 

[254] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

in  a  little  corner  shop.  Oh!  what  a  man— what  a 
masterly  man  your  father  is,  Monsieur  Stephen!" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  latter,  "my  father  is  a  man  of  rare 
intelligence!" 

"Eminent!  Monsieur  Stephen,  eminent!  And  what 
a  will!  What  capacity  for  work!  It  is  true,  he  is  hard 
upon  idlers  and  those  who  do  not  pay  their  debts,  but 
in  his  very  hardness  there  is  a  sentiment  of  justice 
which  I  can  not  but  admire.  Think  of  it!  Only  the 
other  day  the  cashier's  wife  had  a  sick  child:  this  tor- 
mented the  poor  man's  mind  and  he  had  the  ill  luck 
to  make  a  mistake  of  fifty  dollars  against  the  house. 
He  was  trembling,  the  poor  man,  and  felt  sure  he  would 
be  dismissed.  But — what  does  your  father  do?" 

"He  put  it  down  to  profit  and  loss,"  guessed 
Stephen. 

"No,  not  exactly!  But  instead  of  dismissing  poor 
Pere  Martin,  as  everybody  expected,  he  only  made 
him  refund  the  amount  in  weekly  payments  of  ten 
dollars  out  of  his  wages!  Now  I  call  that  justice 
tempered  by  humanity." 

"Hm!"  said  Stephen,  not  particularly  edified  by 
this  example  of  paternal  clemency. 

They  were  approaching  the  farmhouse.  Celestin 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd  of  young  men,  all 
adorned  with  bright  ribbons,  to  introduce  his  guest 
in  the  principal  room. 

The  mother  of  the  bride,  in  her  striking  costume, 
with  a  quaint,  tall  cap  and  enormous  skirts,  was  mov- 
ing about  with  plates  and  dishes.  At  the  upper  end 
of  the  room  the  bride — a  pretty  girl  with  rosy  cheeks 

[255] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

and  blue  eyes — was  standing  stiff  and  straight  among 
a  group  of  five  or  six  young  men  who  were  trying  to 
fasten  the  crown  of  orange-blossoms  to  her  lace  cap. 

"Come,  Celestin,"  said  the  old  farmer,  "we  are 
only  waiting  for  you  to  go  to  the  Mayor's  office!" 

"One  moment,"  cried  the  young  man,  with  an  air 
of  radiant  joy,  "I  bring  you  my  best  man.  Monsieur 
Bardin,  you  were  asking  me  who  would  be  my  witness 
to  the  ceremony?  Here  he  is,  Monsieur  Stephen 
Maupin,  the  son  of  my  master  and  patron!" 

Celestin  then  chose  a  favor  of  blue  and  red  ribbon 
and  fastened  it  to  the  buttonhole  of  his  new  friend; 
and,  taking  him  by  the  hand  and  leading  him  into  the 
courtyard,  he  said: 

"Now  I  wish  to  present  you  to  your  Valentine. 
Mademoiselle  Therese,  where  are  you?"  he  cried, 
looking  in  all  directions  for  the  missing  damsel — "you 
shall  see,  Monsieur  Stephen,  ah!  you  shall  see!" 

"Here  I  am!"  replied  at  last  a  melodious  voice. 

Stephen  looked  at  the  direction  from  which  the 
voice  came,  and,  to  his  distress,  recognized  at  once 
the  daughter  of  Dr.  Desroches! 

She  also  had  recognized  him;  her  face  darkened, 
and  she  seized  the  arm  of  a  young  man  in  velveteen, 
who  was  standing  near  her. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mademoiselle!"  exclaimed  the 
bridegroom.  "That  is  not  your  escort  to  church — 
here  is  your  gentleman,  Monsieur  Stephen  Maupin!" 

This  announcement  did  not  produce  the  effect  which 
Tiffin  had  expected.  The  young  girl  whispered  a  few 
words  into  her  neighbor's  ear  and  did  not  let  him  go. 

[256] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur  Tiffin,"  she  said,  in  a  very 
decided  voice,  "I  have  my  escort  and  I  keep  him!" 

"There  is  a  mistake  here! — a  misunderstanding," 
Celestin  wailed  piteously,  turning  to  Stephen,  who  bit 
his  moustache  with  vexation.  The  procession  formed, 
and  Celestin  had  to  obey  his  father-in-law's  orders  and 
take  his  place.  They  wound  their  way  down  the  street, 
mostly  between  tall  hedges  of  privet  and  honeysuckle. 
Stephen  had  been  left  behind  among  the  old  men,  and 
watched  with  mixed  feelings  the  elegant  leghorn  hat  of 
Mademoiselle  Desroches,  as  it  now  and  then  appeared 
in  some  break  of  the  hedges,  amid  the  tall  white  caps 
and  the  broad-brimmed  black  felt  hats  of  the  natives. 

Young  Maupin  could  not  help  feeling  vexed;  the 
doctor's  daughter  had  a  second  time  shown  her  aver- 
sion for  him,  and  his  presence  among  the  peasants,  so 
far  from  pleasing  and  flattering  them,  seemed  only  to 
embarrass  the  good  people. 

When  the  double  ceremony — the  civil  and  the  church 
marriage — was  accomplished,  the  firing  of  guns  began 
once  more,  and,  still  with  music  at  the  head,  the  pro- 
cession returned  to  Brenil,  where  the  wedding-feast 
was  awaiting  the  people.  When  they  met  again  at  the 
long  table,  the  bridegroom  began  once  more  to  make 
his  excuses  for  the  conduct  of  Mademoiselle  Desroches, 
whom  lucky  Monsieur  Jonset  had  brought  home  in 
triumph. 

"Take  your  seat  there,  by  my  wife,"  said  the  new 
husband,  with  contrite  heart,  "and  pardon  this  morn- 
ing's mishaps.  It  was  all  my  fault.  You  see,  Made- 
moiselle Desroches  was  not  aware  of  my  intentions, 
*7  [257] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

and  she  had  already  chosen  her  'Valentine/  whom  she 
could  not  well  dismiss  on  the  spot.  But  we  \vill  set 
that  all  right  this  evening  at  the  ball." 

At  the  very  end  of  the  crowd,  through  a  slight  mist, 
Stephen  could  distinguish  Therese's  graceful  head. 
Stephen  thought  her  charming,  and  this  increased  the 
mortification  which  thej  young  lady's  marked  aversion 
was  causing  him. 

"And  now  let  us  enjoy  the  dance!"  cried  Celestin, 
when  the  feast  was  ended.  He  dragged  Stephen  along 
with  him  to  the  barn,  where  the  musicians  had  taken 
their  stand  upon  some  casks. 

One  of  the  most  indefatigable  dancers  was  Therese 
Desroches.  She  never  rested  for  a  moment,  and  fully 
compensated  herself  for  her  long,  quiet  solitude  in  her 
father's  old  house.  Not  a  dance  nor  a  cotillon  did 
she  omit.  Supple,  airy,  and  full  of  elasticity,  she 
seemed  barely  to  touch  the  floor;  the  pure,  fresh  air 
intoxicated  her;  her  eyes  smiled  as  her  lips  smiled. 
There  was  a  remnant  of  childish  petulance  surviving 
yet  in  the  rather  wild  energy  with  which  she  danced. 
She  seemed  to  avoid  only  one  of  the  guests,  and  that 
was  Stephen.  He  tried  repeatedly  to  join  her,  but 
instantly  she  would  escape,  or  she  would  summon  that 
inevitable  Jonset,  like  a  body-guard. 

Once  only  chance  brought  him  near  to  The'rese. 
The  evening  was  already  far  advanced,  and  the  day 
had  grown  weary  of  looking  at  all  these  mad  dancers, 
but  the  bagpipes  were  indefatigable,  and  the  young 
people  jumped  merrily  in  the  court  where  the  moon 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  sun.  Mademoiselle  Des- 

[258] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

roches  had  paused  a  moment  to  get  her  breath,  and 
fanned  herself  with  a  bunch  of  fig-leaves. 

"I  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  dancing  with 
you,"  suddenly  said  Stephen,  coming  forth  from  the 
shade  of  the  barn. 

She  turned  her  bright  black  eyes,  which  shone  in  the 
moonlight,  straight  upon  him,  and  her  eyebrows  threat- 
ened to  unite.  "Really,  Monsieur!"  she  said,  curtly, 
with  affected  indifference. 

"The  musicians  are  going  to  play  a  valse;  will  you 
dance  it  with  me?" 

"Thank  you!    I  am  engaged  to  Monsieur  Jonset!" 

"For  all  time  to  come?"  he  asked,  ironically. 

"For  all  time!"  she  replied,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Monsieur  Jonset  is  lucky!" 

"Well,  Monsieur  Maupin,  we  can  not  all  of  us  have 
all  things!" 

"I  should  be  willing  to  exchange  my  lot  for  his!" 

The  young  girl  said,  disdainfully :  "  Perhaps  he  would 
not  like  the  exchange!" 

"And  you  would  not  advise  him  to  do  it,  would 
you?"  he  continued,  amused  by  the  play. 

She  looked  him  boldly  in  the  face  with  her  clear, 
limpid  eyes,  and  said:  "I?  Certainly  not,  Monsieur 
Maupin!"  and  she  left  him. 

This  time  the  purpose  to  offend  was  too  patent  to 
give  Stephen  any  room  for  doubt.  "What  a  disagree- 
able, ill-bred  child!"  he  said,  as  he  left  the  place. 

This  last  defeat  had  seriously  annoyed  him,  and  he 
no  longer  took  any  pleasure  in  the  ball.  He  went  to 
the  room  where  he  was  to  sleep  and  retired. 

[259] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

He  awoke  very  early,  and  although  he  had  promised 
Celestin  vaguely  to  spend  the  day  with  him,  he  deter- 
mined to  return  to  town  at  once, 

He  had  already  passed  the  suburbs  and  was  entering 
Main  Street,  when  he  suddenly  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  his  father. 

"Why!"  said,  the  elder  Maupin,  "back  already?  To 
judge  from  your  long  face,  you  have  had  a  bad  night." 

"No,  I  went  to  bed  at  eleven,  and  only  got  up  a  little 
while  ago." 

"Dear  me!  How  prudent!  Were  there  no  pretty 
girls,  then,  at  the  wedding?  Well,  as  you  have  slept 
well,  you  may  as  well  come  with  me!  I  want  to  show 
you  an  acquisition  I  have  made  during  your  absence!" 
They  went  across  the  fields  in  the  direction  of  the  table- 
land that  overlooks  St.  Clement. 

"Yes,  I  have  bought  the  'Elms.'  I  had  coveted  the 
place  for  a  long  time,  and  as  the  present  owner  is  em- 
barrassed in  his  finances,  I  have  taken  advantage  of  the 
chance  and  bought  it  cheap!" 

By  this  time  they  had  entered  a  beautiful  avenue  of 
old  elm-trees,  with  their  noble,  wide-spreading  branches, 
and  saw  at  the  other  end  of  it  the  porch  of  the  dwelling. 

"You  see,"  he  said  to  Stephen,  pointing  out  to  him 
with  his  cane  the  four  cardinal  points,  "there  is  some- 
thing here  of  everything;  meadows  and  fields,  even 
heather  are  here,  thanks  to  our  wretched  system  of  farm- 
ing! But  I  mean  to  change  all  that!  I  shall  send  away, 
as  soon  as  I  can,  the  four  tenants  that  now  hold  the 
lands,  and  engage,  in  their  places,  a  first-rate  Belgian 
farmer,  who  will  manage  the  whole  with  one  hand  and 

[260] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

not  leave  an  inch  of  soil  lying  fallow.  In  my  bank 
every  dollar  must  bring  its  interest;  in  agriculture, 
every  yard  of  soil  ought  in  like  manner  to  produce  its 
profit."  At  this  moment,  on  this  radiant  summer 
morning,  in  face  of  this  luxuriant  nature,  Stephen  was 
almost  proud  of  his  father.  He  forgot  the  mortifica- 
tions of  the  evening,  and  became  expansive  in  his  turn. 

"What  a  charming  place!"  he  said  to  his  father.  "I 
am  delighted  with  your  purchase!  I  shall  come  and 
paint  it  soon." 

The  banker  shrugged  his  broad,  square  shoulders. 
"You  are  still  a  child  for  your  age,"  he  replied.  "What 
enthusiasm  for  a  bit  of  wheat-field  and  a  ruin  of  a 
house!  The  only  attraction  you  find  in  the  ' Elms'  is 
that  you  can  come  here  and  daub  at  your  pleasure! 
You  are  not  practical!" 

"No!  I  am  a  painter,  and  I  look  at  your  property 
with  an  artist's  eyes." 

"Artist!"  repeated  M.  Maupin,  making  a  face. 
"You  have  not  given  up  that  old  fancy?  Well,  I  am 
rich  enough  to  give  you  a  few  years  during  which  you 
can  amuse  yourself  as  you  like.  After  that,  I  hope  you 
will  look  at  life  seriously." 

"But,  dear  father,  in  Paris  there  are  many  men  who 
look  upon  painting  as  a  very  serious  profession." 

"That  may  be  so  in  Paris,"  said  the  banker,  dryly, 
"but  here,  that  is  about  the  last  profession  in  life,  with 
the  exception  of  that  of  a  rope-dancer." 

They  had  reached  one  of  the  wheatfields,  where  two 
peasants  were  busy  unloading  sheaves  and  beginning  a 
stack.  The  younger  of  the  two  men  was  throwing  down 

[261] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

the  sheaves  from  the  cart  on  which  he  was  standing, 
and  the  old  peasant  arranged  them  carefully  in  a  circle. 

"Look!"  said  M.  Maupin,  "here  is  Father  Jacques, 
making  a  stack  of  wheat !  I  must  ask  him  how  his  wife 
is;  she  has  been  very  ill." 

To  Stephen's  great  surprise,  the  two  peasants  hardly 
raised  their  heads  to  greet  the  "Master,"  and  did  not 
for  a  moment  stop  their  work. 

"Neither  better  nor  worse!"  was  the  laconic  answer, 
and  the  old  man  went  on  arranging  his  sheaves. 

M.  Maupin,  a  little  disconcerted  by  this  reception, 
walked  on,  but  as  he  reached  the  gate  he  turned  and 
said:  "Let  us  hope  that  your  good  woman  will  soon 
be  all  right  again.  I'll  send  you  my  doctor,  Jacques!" 

"You  are  very  civil,  Monsieur  Maupin,  but  perhaps 
it  would  be  better  were  you  a  little  less  polite  in  words, 
and  more  just  in  your  business!" 

At  first  M.  Maupin  pretended  not  to  hear,  but 
Stephen  stopped  and  looked  at  Jacques  in  surprise. 

"What  is  that  you  are  saying?"  the  banker  asked, 
turning  round,  "I  do  not  understand  you!" 

"I  understand  myself  very  well,"  replied  Father 
Jacques,  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow  with 
his  shirt-sleeve,  "and  you  would  understand  me  very 
well,  too,  Monsieur  Maupin,  if  you  chose.  You  must 
surely  know  that  we  have  had  an  execution  yesterday 
in  the  house,  and  you  also  know  who  sent  it!" 

"You  are  mistaken,  my  good  man,"  M.  Maupin  said, 
curtly.  "I  am  not  concerned  in  it." 

"I  see  very  clearly,"  continued  the  peasant,  getting 
heated,  "you  want  to  turn  me  out  of  my  little  bit  of  a 

[262] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

farm,  and  you  put  forward  that  man  Berloc,  as  if  every- 
body did  not  know  that  he  is  merely  your  tool." 

"You  are  a  fool  and  an  insolent  fellow!"  cried  M. 
Maupin,  whose  anger  rose  beyond  his  control. 

"Pshaw!  You  need  not  roll  your  eyes,"  said  the  old 
peasant,  drawing  himself  up  with  a  great  effort.  "You 
won't  keep  me  from  seeing  what  your  game  is.  You 
caress  people  and  your  man  Berloc  flays  them  alive! 
Great  God !  How  many  people  are  lying  on  straw  now 
whose  beds  you  have  taken  from  them !  Why,  sir,  they 
count  by  hundreds!  I  am  not  the  first  and  I  shall  not 
be  the  last!  I  say  it  is  mean  and  that  is  all!" 

M.  Maupin  had  quickly  left  the  grounds  and  hastened 
his  steps,  but  Stephen  heard  it  all  and  lost  no  word 
spoken  by  Father  Jacques.  "What  does  he  mean?" 
he  asked  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  his  painful  excite- 
ment. "  Is  it  true  that  this  Berloc ?  " 

"Will  you  subject  me  now  to  an  examination? 
You?"  asked  M.  Maupin  in  very  bad  humor.  "If  you 
listen  to  all  the  stories  that  these  people  tell,  you  will 
soon  cease  to  wonder.  It  is  a  perfect  race  of  beggars, 
ever  complaining — they  are  all  so,  but  I'll  find  a  way  to 
shut  their  mouths!" 

The  young  man  looked  pale;  he  felt  his  heart  beat 
within  him.  It  was  to  him  as  if  the  imposing  form  of 
his  father  had  suddenly  been  torn  from  the  pedestal 
on  which  he  had  raised  it  but  just  now,  with  such 
great  admiration. 


[263] 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  BETTER  UNDERSTANDING 

)R  breakfast,  Stephen  pleaded  his 
bad  night  and  long  morning  walk  to 
retire  to  his  room.  He  threw  him- 
self, fully  dressed,  on  his  bed,  feeling 
an  indescribable  relief  as  he  gradually 
saw  things  less  sharply  defined  before 
his  eyes,  and  at  last  fell  pleasantly 
asleep.  For  an  hour  he  was  uncon- 
scious. But  his  mind  had  been  too  painfully  affected 
to  allow  his  sleep  to  continue  long  and  peacefully.  His 
memory  of  a  sudden  awoke,  and  he  saw  once  more 
the  whole  scene,  with  the  two  peasants  before  his  mind's 
eye.  Instantly  also  the  one  terrible  question  that  had 
possessed  him  during  the  whole  morning,  arose  again. 
"Can  it  be  that  my  father  is  not  an  honest  man?" 

From  early  childhood  Stephen  had  been  brought  up 
in  respect  and  admiration  for  his  father. 

To  Stephen,  his  father  was  always  the  impeccable 
man,  the  rich  and  keen-sighted  banker  whom  he  had 
learned  to  respect  and  admire  from  his  tenderest  age. 
The  insinuations  of  the  old  peasant  were  thus  the  first 
blow  inflicted  upon  his  father's  prestige.  Could  they 
be  true  ?  Was  it  possible  that  the  ease  and  comfort  by 
which  he  had  been  surrounded  from  infancy  were  pur- 

[264] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

chased  with  money  unjustly  taken  from  poor  helpless 
folk? 

As  he  was  thus  meditating,  there  returned  to  his 
memory  a  number  of  unpleasant  incidents  that  had 
struck  him  at  the  wedding.  He  remembered  the  mis- 
trustful looks  of  his  neighbors,  the  conversation  sud- 
denly interrupted  at  his  approach,  and  above  all  the 
downright  hostile  position  assumed  by  Mademoiselle 
Desroches.  He  asked  himself  if  the  young  girl  could 
be  aware  of  the  reports  concerning  his  father,  and  had, 
on  that  account,  refused  to  know  him  ? 

These  reminiscences  naturally  brought  back  to  him 
also  the  picture  of  his  old  friend  C£lestin,  and  he  in- 
stantly resolved  to  question  him.  He  got  up  and  looked 
at  the  clock.  It  was  three.  The  wedding  festivities 
were  to  be  continued  that  evening,  and  he  had  abundant 
time  to  reach  Brenil.  He  thrust  his  head  into  a  basin 
of  water,  arranged  his  clothes,  and  after  telling  his 
mother  that  he  thought  himself  bound  to  play  his  part 
as  best  man  to  the  end,  he  started  once  more  for  the 
wedding.  The  large  room,  but  yesterday  the  scene  of 
incessant  laughter  and  loud  cries  and  songs,  was  de- 
serted, but  the  table  was  there  still,  and  Madame  Bar- 
din  and  some  of  the  servants  were  busy  putting  things 
in  their  places  again. 

"Good  gracious !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  her 
visitor.  "Here  you  are  and  quite  alone!  Celestin  was 
hardly  hoping  for  you  any  longer.  He  is  gone  with  our 
child,  and  the  young  folks,  fishing  for  crawfish  near  our 
second  meadow  on  the  river,  and  he  told  us  to  send  you 
there  if  you  should  come.  I'll  show  you  the  way!" 

[265] 


ANDK6  THEURIET 

Pointing  out  to  him  a  path  that  led  down  the  slope, 
she  said : 

"Only  follow  this  path,  and  it  will  lead  you  straight 
to  the  river.  There  you'll  find  all  our  people!" 

Stephen  went  down  the  path,  which  to  his  inexperienced 
ideas  looked  little  better  than  a  way  for  goats,  and  soon 
he  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  the  fishing  party. 

In  the  very  centre  of  the  round  dance  he  saw  Made- 
moiselle Desroches;  her  white  muslin  dress  shone 
brightly  on  the  green  background,  and  looked  strangely 
simple  amid  all  the  bright  colored  gowns  of  the  others. 
He  was  afraid  now  of  accosting  Celestin  and  subjecting 
him  to  an  interrogation  which  might  possibly  change 
his  doubts  into  certainty.  A  vague  presentiment  warned 
him  to  wait  a  little  longer. 

He  was  aroused  from  his  dreams  by  a  sudden  out- 
break of  laughter;  the  couples  had  separated,  they 
were  running  to  and  fro  in  search  of  their  wraps,  and 
evidently  preparing  for  the  return  home.  It  was  time 
to  find  Celestin!  Stephen,  with  beating  heart,  jumped 
over  the  fence  and  cut  across  the  meadow.  When  he 
reached  at  last  the  wedding-party,  the  couples  had  once 
more  united  and  were  slowly  filing  past  him,  the  bridal 
couple  at  their  head.  At  the  sight  of  his  master's  son, 
Celestin  uttered  a  cry  of  delight.  "  Bravo,  Monsieur 
Stephen!  It  is  good  of  you  to  come  back  to  us  this 
evening!  You  are  just  in  time  for  supper,  and  we  are 
bringing  home  the  finest  crawfish  you  ever  saw.  Wait 
till  mother  makes  them  jump  in  boiling  water! "  Then 
he  turned  toward  the  procession,  crying  out:  "Well, 
are  we  all  there?  Are  the  couples  complete  again?" 

[266] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"There  is  one  missing !"  replied  a  young  fellow, 
in  whom  Stephen  recognized  the  inevitable  Jonset. 
"Mademoiselle  Desroches  has  gone  in  search  of 
a  pair  of  scales,  that  have  been  mislaid.  But  she 
knows  the  way — still,  I  have  a  mind  to  run • ' 

"Stay  here,  Jonset !"  said  the  bridegroom,  with  an 
air  of  authority.  "You  look  to  me  much  too  fond  of 
fluttering  around  Mademoiselle  Desroches!  People 
will  begin  to  notice  it,  and  that  might  become  unpleas- 
ant. I'll  go  myself — or  rather,  Monsieur  Stephen, 
would  you  be  kind  enough  to  take  my  place?  Show 
her  that  you  have  not  taken  it  amiss,  how  she  has 
treated  you — I  have  given  her  a  lecture  this  morning — 
and  she  expressed  her  regret  at  having  behaved  so. 
Come  on,  children!  Monsieur  Maupin  and  Mademoi- 
selle Desroches  will  overtake  us  before  we  get  home." 

Searching  carefully  all  the  alder  bushes,  Stephen  was 
at  last  lucky  enough  to  see  the  young  girl's  white  dress. 

"Mademoiselle!"  he  cried. 

"Monsieur!"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  full  of  vexation 
and  impatience. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  annoy  you!"  Stephen  said, 
and  his  voice  had  become  slightly  sarcastic — "but  Ce- 
lestih  has  asked  me  to  help  you  look  for  the  lost  scales 
and  to  bring  you  back  to  the  house — with  the  scales!" 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself,"  she  replied.  "I  remem- 
ber now  where  I  put  them  down.  They  are  on  that 
little  island,  and  I'll  go  and  get  them." 

"On  the  island?    Have  you  a  boat?" 

"No,  but  there  is  a  bridge.  Do  not  trouble  your- 
self!" 

[267] 


ANDRti  THEURIET 

Stephen  went  forward  and  saw  that  there  was  indeed 
a  fallen  tree  lying  so  as  to  cross  to  the  opposite  bank. 
"You  are  not  going  to  venture  out  there,  I  am  sure!" 
he  said.  "Pray  take  care,  you  will  slip  and  fall  into 
the  water!" 

In  the  mean  time  she  had  gathered  the  folds  of  her 
skirt,  and  walked  across  the  dangerous  bridge. 

Mademoiselle  Desroches  was  almost  at  the  end  of  her 
rash  undertaking,  when  all  of  a  sudden  there  came  a 
"plump!"  and  he  heard  a  plunge  into  the  water.  In 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Stephen  was  at  the  end  of  the 
tree  where  Mademoiselle  Desroches  was  sitting,  holding 
on  with  her  hands  to  the  withe  that  served  as  a  railing, 
but  her  body,  from  her  waist  down,  was  in  the  river.  She 
broke  out  into  loud  laughter,  but  it  was  a  short,  ner- 
vous laugh;  the  young  man  seized  her  by  the  arms, 
helped  her  to  raise  herself,  and  deposited  her,  well 
soaked,  on  the  edge  of  the  little  island. 

"Have  you  hurt  yourself?"  he  asked  her. 

"No!  It  is  nothing.  I  have  sprained  my  foot,  I 
think,  that  is  all." 

"I  told  you  so!" 

"It  is  your  fault,  too!"  she  cried,  angrily.  "If  you 
had  not  been  there,  I  would  not  have  slipped.  I  have 
often  and  often  crossed  here;  I  have  been  across  ten 
times  at  least  this  very  day,  and  never  missed  it." 

"I  make  you  ten  thousand  excuses !"  he  said,  ironi- 
cally, "but  after  all  I  am  here,  and  now  I  have  to  take 
you  back  to  the  farm.  You  can  not  stay  all  night  here 
like  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  island.  Do  you  feel  strong 
enough  to  go  back  this  way,  resting  on  my  arm?" 

[268] 


MLLE    DESROCHES 

"I'll  try,"  she  replied,  with  an  air  divided  between 
anger  and  contrition. 

When  they  were  once  more  on  firm  land,  they  walked 
for  a  while  in  perfect  silence.  Th6rese  was  too  much 
mortified  to  complain,  but  a  slight  tremor  of  her  chin 
and  a  corresponding  motion  of  the  lips  warned  her 
that  soon  her  teeth  would  begin  to  chatter.  She  could 
hardly  drag  herself  any  farther.  At  last  she  stopped. 

"It  would  be  dangerous  for  you,  soaked  as  you  are, 
to  attempt  reaching  the  farmhouse.  We  must  look  for 
some  house  where  you  can  dry  yourself." 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in  a  soft  and 
almost  timid  voice,  she  said: 

"Yes,  that  would  be  better.  Not  far  from  here  there 
is  a  house,  where  the  people — nice  people — know  my 
father.  They  will  be  ready  to  make  me  a  fire.  Will  you 
take  me  there  ?" 

Stephen  inclined  his  head  in  token  of  assent,  and  then 
offered  her  his  arm.  Ten  minutes  later  they  reached  a 
humble  cottage.  Stephen  knocked  at  the  door.  An 
elderly  woman  opened  it,  and  Stephen  told  her  of  the 
accident. 

"Oh!"  she  said  at  once,  "you  are  the  doctor's 
daughter,  are  you?  Why,  my  little  darling,  you  are 
wet  to  your  bones.  Come  in  quick.  I'll  make  a  blaze 
with  some  dry  branches." 

They  entered  the  kitchen,  feebly  lighted  by  a  piece  of 
resinous  bark,  stuck  in  the  cleft  of  a  piece  of  wood;  the 
woman  threw  a  handful  of  vine-branches  on  the  coals 
and  while  she  was  looking  for  some  garments  that  she 
might  lend  Therese,  till  her  own  should  get  dry,  Ste- 

i  269  ] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

phen  escaped  stealthily,  to  give  the  girl  an  opportunity 
to  change  her  costume. 

He  was  thinking  of  her  aversion  with  intense  bitter- 
ness, when  suddenly,  between  the  tall  green  stalks  of  the 
corn,  he  saw  two  black  eyes  shine  brightly,  and  as 
slender  form  came  forth  out  of  the  shadow,  he  recog- 
nized Therese  Desroches.  The  young  girl  had  donned 
a  blue  gown  of  some  flannel-like  material,  which  she 
had  borrowed  from  the  wardrobe  of  her  hostess. 

"It  is  I,"  she  said,  smiling;  "do  not  start.  The 
good  woman  is  drying  my  clothes  and  in  the  mean  time 
I  have  put  on  her  daughter's  dress." 

"This  costume  is  very  becoming  to  you,"  he  said, 
"you  only  lack  the  tall  white  cap  and  you  would  be  a 
perfect  peasant." 

"  Peasant  ?  Why  for  four  years  I  have  been  that  and 
nothing  else — of  course  I  must  show  that  very  clearly." 

"You  were  brought  up  in  a  village?" 

"Not  even  in  a  village!  On  an  isolated  farm  sur- 
rounded by  vast  fields.  My  nurse  lived  there  and  I  re- 
mained with  her  and  her  people  till  I  was  thirteen." 
She  sighed.  "I  was  very  happy  with  them,  and  I  liked 
it  much  better  than  I  like  town.  I  love  peasants ! " 

"Is  that  the  reason  why  you  preferred  Monsieur 
Jonset's  arm  to  mine  at  the  wedding?" 

"No!"  she  cried,  excitedly. 

"Ah!  then  there  was  another  reason  for  it?"  cried 
Stephen. 

"No!  that  is  to  say,  I  had  accepted  him  at  first,  and, 
of  course  I  would  not  mortify  him  by  giving  him  up  for 
a  newcomer!" 

[270] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

Stephen  suddenly  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  said, 
very  gravely:  "Mademoiselle  Desroches,  I  think  you 
are  candid.  Would  you  swear  to  me  that  this  was  the 
only  reason  why  you  refused  last  night  to  take  my  arm 
and  to  dance  with  me?" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  the  darkness  prevented 
his  seeing  how  deeply  she  blushed.  "You  had  another 
reason,"  he  continued,  sadly,  "a  reason  that  touches  me 
personally." 

"You  are  right!"  she  murmured  at  last. 

"What  was  it?" 

"What  use  is  it  to  tell  you?" 

"You  fear  to  mortify  me  as  you  did  with  Jonset!" 
he  cried,  bitterly.  "Never  mind!  I  am  able  to  hear  the 
truth,  even  unpleasant  truth.  Confess  you  disliked  me, 
and  you  meant  to  make  me  aware  of  it!" 
,  "You  are  mistaken,  Monsieur,  I  have  nothing 
against  you.  I  do  not  know  you!" 

"You  look  to  me  too  sensible  to  treat  a  man  like  me 
as  a  child  would  do;  twice,  Sunday  at  church,  and  last 
night  at  the  wedding,  you  treated  me  as  you  would  a 
man  whom  you  hate  and  whom  you  wish  to  know  of  it. 
And  yet,  you  acknowledge  yourself,  you  did  not  know 
me!" 

"That  is  true!" 

"If  your  dislike  did  not  arise  with  me,  the  newcomer, 
you  meant  to  show  it  against  my  family  ?  What  do  you 
object  to  in  us?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  is  not  for  me  to  speak  of 
such  things — especially  not  with  you!" 

"Oh,  speak!"  he  resumed,  vehemently,  "I  want  it! 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

You  must  do  it!  I  pray  you!  Since  yesterday  I  feel 
that  all  around  me  I  brush  against  people  who  hate  us, 
and  this  hatred  terrifies  me,  because  it  is  a  mystery  to 
me.  I  can  not  endure  this  anguish  any  longer — I  must 
see  my  way  clear  before  me.  Is  it  my  father  whom  they 
charge ?" 

She  cast  down  her  eyes,  but  said  nothing. 

"They  say  he  is  hard,  even  cruel,  that  he  does  not 
shrink  from  the  harshest  measures  to  recover  money 
which  is  due  to  him.  That  is  a  defect  in  a  man's  char- 
acter, but  because  he  is  hard  and  exacting,  he  is  not 
dishonorable  in  any  way,  and  my  father  is  a  man  of 
honor  who  has  amassed  a  large  fortune  by  means  of 
hard  work  and  loyal  means !" 

Her  eyes  still  downcast;  she  made  no  reply. 

"You  doubt  that?"  exclaimed  Stephen.  "You 
doubt  that  he  is  honorable  in  all  his  dealings?  But 
where  is  your  proof?  Who  among  your  acquaintances 
has  the  right  to  bring  that  charge  against  him?" 

"My  father!  He  has  been  ruined  by  your  father! 
and  not  very  honorably — that  I  can  assure  you!" 

"That  is  slander  !"  cried  the  young  man,  furious. 

"My  father  never  tells  a  falsehood,"  Therese  said, 
firmly.  "You  ask  me  to  tell  you  the  truth,  and  this  I 
was  told  on  the  very  evening  of  your  return  to  Saint 
Clement.  I  know  very  well  that  these  are  things  not  to 
be  spoken  of,  but  why  do  you  force  me?" 

"My  father  has  ruined  your  father!  How  and 
when?"  murmured  Stephen,  in  a  low,,  subdued  voice. 

"Thus:  Five  years  ago  my  father  stood  in  need  of 
money;  and  he  wanted  it  all  at  once.  It  was  a  big 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

sum;  thirty  thousand  francs  I  believe.  He  went 
to  Monsieur  Maupin  first,  who  refused  to  lend  him 
money,  but  offered  to  purchase  for  cash,  for  the  same 
amount,  a  property  which  was  worth  eighty  thousand 
francs,  and  which  had  been  in  our  family  more  than 
a  hundred  years.  That  was  not  very  honest,  to  begin 
with,  was  it?  To  take  advantage  of  a  man's  embar- 
rassment to  propose  such  a  bargain.  My  father  tried 
elsewhere,  but  time  was  pressing,  and  at  last  he  went  to 
a  kind  of  money-lender  by  profession.  This  was  a  man 
called  Jean  Berloc,  who  furnished  the  money,  but 
asked  outrageous  interest,  and  lent  only  for  a  very  short 
time.  When  the  note  became  due,  my  father  did  not 
have  the  money  to  meet  it.  Then  he  was  made  to  re- 
new the  notes  on  still  harder  conditions,  and  finally, 
when  my  father  was  unable  to  pay,  Berloc  took  the 
matter  into  court.  The  estate  was  sold  at  public  auc- 
tion, and  do  you  know  who  bought  it?  Monsieur 
Maupin,  whose  tool  and  agent  Berloc  had  been,  as  all 
Saint  Clement  now  knows  perfectly  well.  This  is  the 
bare  truth,  Monsieur,  and  everybody  here  knows  all 
about  it — except  you  !" 

Stephen  was  crushed;  he  had  sunk  down  upon  the 
edge  of  the  basin,  and  there  he  sat,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  utterly  overcome  by  these  revelations. 

"I  have  caused  you  pain,"  said  Therese,  in  a  gentle 
voice,  "pardon  me,  I  am  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you. 
How  deeply  I  now  regret  my  conduct  last  night!  If  I 
had  not  been  so  hard  with  you,  all  this  of  to-night  would 
not  have  happened." 

At  the  same  moment  the  owner  of  the  house  appeared 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

in  the  garden.  "Your  clothes  are  all  dry,  little  one," 
she  cried,  "and  you  can  put  them  on  again  whenever 
you  wish."  As  she  was  saying  this,  some  noise  was 
heard  at  a  distance.  Then  loud  and  repeated  halloos 
reechoed  from  the  direction  of  the  bridge.  "That  is 
Monsieur  Celestin's  voice,"  said  Therese,  "he  is  no 
doubt  in  search  of  us !" 

She  ran  to  the  front  door  of  the  house  and  answered 
the  cries.  She  was  not  mistaken.  A  moment  later  the 
bridegroom  and  Jonset  appeared,  and  heard,  with 
much  astonishment,  the  story  of  Therese's  adventure. 

"Well!"  said  Jonset,  "you  can  boast  of  having 
caused  us  all  a  great  fright  and  much  anxiety.  We 
feared  for  some  time  you  might  have  fallen  into  a  big 
hole." 

At  the  arrival  of  the  young  man,  Stephen  had  gath- 
ered himself  up,  and,  forcing  himself  to  appear  calm, 
had  joined  Celestin.    "Since  you  are  here,"  he  said  to 
him,  "I  can  entrust  Mademoiselle  Desroches  to  you, 
and  wish  you  good-night !" 

"What!"  cried  Tiffin,  "you  will  not  stay  and  sup 
with  us?  Ah!  I  am  certainly  unlucky  with  my  wed- 
ding!" 

" Excuse  me !"  Stephen  said,  briefly,  "I  must  be  back 
at  Saint  Clement  to-night." 

He  was  already  at  some  distance,  when  somebody 
came  running  after  him,  and  in  the  darkness  a  little 
hand  shook  his  cordially.  "Good-night,  Monsieur 
Stephen,"  murmured  Therese,  "good-night  and  forgive 
me!" 

[274] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SON  MAKES  AMENDS 

'HE  bank  had  hardly  opened  yet,  but 
M.  Maupin  had  already  been  at  work 
more  than  two  hours  in  his  private 
office. 

The  clock  was  striking  eight,  when 
some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  Stephen 
Maupin. 

And  as  the  answer  did  not  come  at  once,  the  young 
man  entered  at  the  very  moment  when  a  visitor  slipped 
out  and  disappeared  through  the  small  door  leading  to 
the  offices.  Stephen  barely  had  time  to  recognize  the 
bent  figure  and  shuffling  walk  of  Jean  Berloc. 

When  this  client  was  gone,  the  banker  turned  round, 
and  said:  "Well,  what  do  you  want?" 

The  young  man  looked  pale,  but  there  was  in  his  eye 
something  that  showed  he  was  firm  and  resolved. 

"Good-morning,  father!  I  should  like  to  have  a  talk 
with  you.  Can  you  give  me  a  few  minutes?" 

The  banker  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  can  give  you 
half  an  hour,"  he  said,  "but  not  a  moment  more,  for  I 
have  an  appointment  at  half  past  nine." 

When  Stephen  had  risen  in  the  morning,  he  had  felt 
himself  strong  in  his  purposes  and  had  vowed  to  him- 

[275] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

self  that  he  would  be  brave  and  ask  his  father  for  a  full 
explanation.  But  he  loved  his  father,  who  had  always 
been  just  and  kind  to  him.  And  now — was  he  to  sub- 
ject him  to  a  painful  interrogatory?  Was  he  to  judge, 
perhaps  to  condemn  him  ? 

"Well,  I  am  waiting!"  cried  M.  Maupin,  who  had 
been  scribbling  something  on  his  blotter.  "  Of  what  are 
you  dreaming?  Are  you  going  to  stand  there  like  a 
stick  ?  I  thought  you  had  something  to  ask  me  ?  " 

"Yes!"  replied  Stephen  at  last.  "Ever  since  yester- 
day I  have  been  thinking  of  that  little  farmer  of  whom 
we  were  speaking.  I  came  to  ask  you  to  give  orders 
that  he  be  left  alone!" 

M.  Maupin  continued  his  scribbling  with  an  air  of 
perfect  indifference.  "I  thought,"  he  replied  without 
raising  his  eyes  from  his  book,  "I  had  explained  to  you 
that  this  peasant  is  mistaken.  I  am  not  his  creditor, 
and  it  does  not  depend  on  me  to  stop  the  prosecution." 

"Is  not  the  man  who  has  just  left  you,  perhaps  the 
real  creditor?" 

"Which  man?" 

"JeanBerloc." 

"  That  may  be.  Berloc  has  a  great  many  such  skulk- 
ing debtors,  and  I  would  not  be  surprised  to  find  that 
our  friend  of  yesterday  is  one  of  the  number." 

"Well— and  then?"  asked  the  young  man,  looking 
his  father  in  the  face. 

"Well,  then?" 

"At  a  word  from  you,  Berloc  would  stop  the  suit." 

"You  are  jesting.  What  right  could  I  possibly  have 
to  interfere  with  his  business?" 

[276] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"The  right  of  the  principal,  who  directs  his  agent," 
said  Stephen,  with  a  firm  voice.  "It  is  well  known 
everywhere  that  this  man  Berloc  is  your  tool,  and  only 
does  what  you  order  him  to  do." 

"What  nonsense!"  M.  Maupin  gave  a  push  to  his 
chair  and  turned  round  so  as  to  face  him.  "What  on 
earth  have  you  to  do  with  this?  What  the  devil  do  you 
mean  by  putting  your  nose  into  matters  that  do  not 
concern  you,  and  of  which  you  know  nothing?" 

"If  I  touch  this  matter  it  is  because  your  name  and 
my  name  can  only  suffer  by  being  associated  with  Ber- 
loc's  name !" 

The  banker's  irritation  rose.  "By  God!"  he  cried 
in  his  native  jargon,  "have  you  not  dragooned  me 
enough  with  your  foolish  questions,  and  your  absurd 
scruples?  Do  I  trouble  myself  about  your  pictures? 
Everybody  to  his  taste !  Leave  it  to  me  to  take  care 
of  my  name — I  can  do  it  without  assistance  from  others. 
Make  money — and  that  is  enough !" 

"Money  is  not  everything !"  remarked  Stephen. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  asked  the  old  man,  ironically. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  money  is  the  one  main  spring,  and 
that  he  who  is  rich  is  strong,  and  in  order  to  be  rich  we 
have  to  make  use  of  men  and  their  foibles,  eh  ?  There 
are  throats  that  are  thirsty — and  there  is  water  that 
flows  below  ground — and  the  wise  man  is  he  who  dis- 
covers that  water  and  leads  it  to  the  thirsty  throats! 
Do  you  understand?" 

"I  understand  that  wealth  is  power — but  is  that  a 
reason  why  we  must  value  it  above  all  considerations 
of  honor  and  of  humanity?" 

[277] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"Words!  Empty  words!"  exclaimed  M.  Maupin, 
once  more  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  True  honor  con- 
sists in  doing  what  your  hands  find  to  do,  conscien- 
tiously. The  world  bows  low  to  those  who  know  how 
to  make  money,  and  the  world  is  right." 

"Yes,  they  take  off  their  hats  before  their  faces — 
and  behind  their  backs  they  send  them  to  the  gallows ! 
That  is  not  respect— that  is  fear !" 

"Well— what  then?"  exclaimed  M.  Maupin,  "if  the 
timid  are  in  the  majority,  the  strong  and  fearless  must 
discount  .their  foibles.  I  know  them,  for  I  have  been 
poor  myself  and  have  lived  with  the  poor!  They  have 
the  same  vices  as  the  rich — only  with  envy  and  jealousy 
added— that  is  all!" 

Stephen  heard  his  father,  and  was  stupefied. 

"You  wonder!"  said  M.  Maupin,  resuming  his  seat, 
and  looking  around  with  his  cruelly  hard  eyes  at  the 
disturbed  face  of  his  son.  "You  will  find  out  the  truth 
of  my  words  when  you  go  to  work  yourself."  And  when 
Stephen  shrank  back,  he  added,  not  unkindly:  "Oh! 
be  not  afraid!  I  do  not  mean  to-day,  or  to-morrow. 
You  are  not  ripe  yet  for  business.  Amuse  yourself! 
A  young  man  must  sow  his  wild  oats!  Go  and  enjoy 
your  young  days,  my  boy;  that  is  all  I  ask  of  you — just 
now!" 

Stephen  did  not  believe  his  own  ears,  and  his  sadness 
was  only  increased.  "Thank  you,"  he  said,  "I  take  no 
pleasure  in  such  things!" 

"Why !  You  are  fastidious !  I  only  wish  I  had  had 
such  an  offer  made  me  when  I  was  young!  I  was 
always  hungry  and  thirsty!  I  thought  all  the  girls  were 

[278] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

pretty,  and  wanted  to  kiss  every  one  of  them.  And 
you!  You  turn  up  your  nose  and  play  the  virtuous 
youth.  I  ask  you  only  one  thing:  Do  not  contract 
debts.  I  can  not  bear  them.  When  your  pocket  is 
empty,  come  to  me  directly.  By  the  way,"  he  added, 
pulling  open  a  drawer,  "I  think  you  must  be  dry 
now " 

He  broke  open  a  roll,  and  counted  out  on  the  table 
fifty  bright  gold  pieces  in  two  lines.  "Here!"  he  said, 
"is  something  for  your  petty  expenses.  But  do  not 
come  again  and  meddle  with  what  is  my  business,  and 
mine  alone!  It  is  bad  to  be  between  hammer  and 
anvil!" 

The  clock  struck  half,  and  the  banker  looked  at  his 
watch.  "Take  them  quickly!"  he  said,  "and  be  gone. 
I  am  in  a  hurry!" 

The  young  man  collected  the  gold  pieces  and  put 
them  into  his  pocket.  "Thank  you!"  he  murmured, 
but  in  a  way  that  showed  how  little  the  heart  had  to 
do  with  his  thanks. 

And  this  man  was  his  father !  Stephen  had  loved  him, 
and  even  now  his  heart  felt  great  tenderness  for  him, 
like  a  dying  man  who  resists  death  to  the  uttermost. 
Soon,  however,  he  fixed  upon  a  plan:  he  would  con- 
scientiously continue  his  studies  in  art,  spend  a  few 
months  in  Paris  at  the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  and  thus 
enable  himself  in  as  short  a  time  as  might  be  possible, 
to  earn  his  daily  bread. 

He  soon  reached  Jacques's  farm,  but  the  house 
looked  deserted,  and  the  doors  were  closed.  Stephen 
knocked  at  the  door  and  a  feeble  voice  answered,  calling 

[279] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

upon  him  to  enter.  After  a  while  he  distinguished  an  old 
woman  lying  in  a  huge  bedstead  and  looking  at  him 
with  feverish  eyes,  full  of  anxiety.  He  told  her  he  wished 
to  see  Father  Jacques. 

"Ah!"  replied  the  sick  person  plaintively,  "he  is  not 
in;  he  is  gone  to  Saint  Clement  about  the  wretchedness 
they  have  brought  upon  us.  Do  you  know,  Monsieur, 
they  want  to  sell  my  furniture  Sunday,  after  Mass? 
And  where  shall  we  go  ?  And  I,  sick  as  I  am,  I  can  not 
lie  in  the  open  air,  like  a  wild  beast.  And  to  think  that 
it  is  a  man  who  is  rolling  in  gold  who  brings  all  this 
misery  upon  us !  Can  you  imagine  anything  more  cruel, 
Monsieur,  I  ask  you?" 

"What  is  the  amount  Father  Jacques  owes  this  man 
who  is  selling  him  out?"  asked  Stephen  at  last. 

"A  mere  trifle,  Monsieur,  thirty  gold  pieces,  which 
we  owe  this  devil  of  a  Berloc — but  that  is  not  all;  then 
there  are  the  interests  and  the  costs.  Great  God!  it 
amounts  in  all  to  nearly  eight  hundred  francs!  And 
everything,  everything  we  have  in  this  world,  is  to  go 
on  Sunday!  They  might  as  well  cut  us  in  quarters — we 
could  not  raise  eight  hundred  francs!" 

"Look  here!"  said  Stephen,  putting  on  a  little  table 
the  gold  his  father  had  given  him.  "Here  are  a  thou- 
sand francs — tell  Father  Jacques  to  pay  everything  he 
owes  by  to-morrow  morning!" 

The  gold  pieces  fell  with  a  ringing  sound  upon  the 
table,  and  Jacques's  mother,  utterly  dumfounded, 
had  raised  herself  in  her  bed  and  looked  alternately  at 
the  money  and  at  the  young  man. 

"And  this  is  no  lie,  Monsieur!  Great  God!  Real 
[280] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

gold  pieces!  and  a  whole  handful!  By  all  the  saints! 
I  have  not  seen  so  many  since  I  have  been  in  this  world. 
You  are  sure  you  are  not  fooling  an  old  woman, 
Monsieur?  You  are  really  in  earnest,  are  you?" 

"Take  it,"  said  Stephen.     "It  is  yours!" 

"And  what  may  be  your  name,  my  beautiful  young 
master?  I  want  to  put  your  name  in  my  prayers  every 
day  of  my  life,  morning  and  evening." 

"This  money  is  not  my  money,"  said  Stephen,  and 
then  suddenly  seized  with  a  feeling  of  pity  and  of  affec- 
tion for  his  father,  he  added:  "This  money  comes  to 
you  from  Monsieur  Maupin,  who  sends  it  to  you,  but 
under  the  condition  that  you  will  mention  it  to  no  one!" 

He  escaped  while  the  plaintive  voice  of  the  old 
woman  pursued  him  with  a  long  string  of  thanks  and 
blessings.  "At  all  events  there  will  be  that  many  peo- 
ple less  who  curse  us!"  he  thought  as  he  went  away. 


[281] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PART  OF  INDISCRETION 

1ANING  against  the  rock  which  here 
rose  quite  steeply,  Stephen  was 
sketching  the  fountain.  Gradually, 
his  attention  became  distracted,  his 
brush  less  certain,  and  he  felt  that 
uncomfortable  sensation  that  over- 
comes us  when  we  are  conscious  that 
we  are  watched.  After  struggling 
for  some  time  against  this  mysterious  influence,  he  put 
down  his  brush,  stretched  his  arm,  and  then  looked 
behind  him  and  beheld  Therese  Desroches. 

"Pardon  me!"  she  replied  to  M.  Maupin's  air  of  as- 
tonishment when  he  perceived  her.  "I  fear  I  am  indis- 
creet. I  did  not  expect  to  find  any  one  at  the  spring 

and  came  to  get  some  cress " 

The  young  man  had  risen;  she  came  up  to  his  canvas. 
"Oh,  how  pretty  this  is!"  she  continued.    "Every- 
thing is  here,  the  water,  the  trees,  the  sky,  even  this 
water-lily  that  is  just  opening  amid  its  round  leaves!" 

Stephen  sat  down  again,  and  in  order  not  to  embar- 
rass the  young  girl,  he  began  cleaning  his  palette  and 
arranging  his  brushes.  As  he  was  about  to  remove  his 
sketch,  The*rese  stopped  him  rather  brusquely.  "Let 
me  look  at  it  once  more!"  she  said,  very  gently. 

[282] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

He  put  it  back  upon  its  little  easel,  and  she  bent  over 
the  better  to  examine  it.  "You  have  forgotten  noth- 
ing," she  continued,  "even  that  washerwoman  in  the 
distance,  what  a  good  likeness!  Is  it  more  difficult  to 
paint  people  or  trees?" 

"The  difficulty  is  the  same,"  he  replied.  "A  tree  has 
a  physiognomy  which  is  as  hard  to  catch  as  a  man's." 

"Then  you  could  paint  the  likeness  of  a  person  as 
faithfully  as  that  of  a  willow." 

"I  think  I  could,"  he  said,  watching  the  firm  and 
regular  outlines  of  Therese's  profile,  and  then,  looking 
straight  in  her  face,  he  added:  "Will  you  let  me  try  to 
paint  yours?" 

"Really?"  she  asked,  with  a  bright  sparkle  of  delight 
in  her  eyes.  "Would  you  consent  to  paint  my  por- 
trait?" 

"I  should  be  delighted,  if  it  were  possible." 

"It  is  very  possible,"  she  assured  him,  eagerly,  "we 
can  begin  whenever  you  like." 

"Where  and  when?"  Stephen  asked,  a  little  puzzled. 

"Here,  every  day,  as  long  as  the  weather  is  fine!" 

"But,"  objected  the  young  man,  "will  they  let  you 
come,  and  won't  it  appear  out  of  the  way." 

"Oh,  I  often  take  long  walks  over  the  country.  I 
had  gotten  used  to  these  solitary  promenades  during 
the  time  when  I  lived  with  peasants,  and  no  one  has  in- 
terfered since." 

The  sad  tones  of  these  last  words  touched  Stephen 
and  made  him  sympathetic.  With  a  look  of  great  ten- 
derness he  said  to  her:  "Very  well,  Mademoiselle, 
when  will  it  please  you  to  begin?  To-morrow?" 

[283] 


ANDK6  THEURIET 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure !"  she  exclaimed. 

"To-morrow,  then — in  the  afternoon — you  will  find 
me  near  the  spring!" 

The  [next  clay,  at  one  o'clock,  she  appeared  at  the 
turn  of  the  rocky  wall,  in  the  same  costume  that  she 
had  worn  the  day  before. 

At  the  sight  of  the  canvas  standing  all  ready  on  the 
easel,  her  black  eyes  were  radiant  with  delight. 

"Am  I  behind  time?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  was  his  reply.  "We  have  three  whole  hours 
before  us,  and  in  that  time  we  can  do  a  good  deal!" 

The  meetings  continued  throughout  the  whole  month 
of  August,  which  was  exceptionally  fine.  As  both  were 
communicative  by  nature,  a  close  intimacy  sprang  up 
between  the  young  people.  They  loved  to  tell  each 
other  of  their  youth,  but  two  subjects  were  carefully  left 
out  of  the  conversation  and  never  touched  upon:  Ste- 
phen was  silent  on  the  subject  of  M.  Maupin,  and  The- 
rese  never  spoke  of  her  mother! 

This  would  have  been  perfect,  ideal  happiness  had 
they  lived  on  a  deserted  island ;  but  they  were  actually 
living  in  a  little  town  where  everybody  had  lynx  eyes  to 
spy  out  their  neighbors'  doings.  Before  the  month  of 
August  had  come  to  an  end,  there  was  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  St.  Clement  who  did  not  know  that 
they  met  every  day  at  the  Angels'  Mill.  Soon  the  whole 
town  spoke  of  the  meetings  of  Dr.  Desroches's  daugh- 
ter with  young  Maupin,  and  the  charitable  pitied  the 
doctor.  As  to  Stephen,  nobody  spared  him,  and  the 
mothers  of  marriageable  daughters,  especially,  thought 
his  conduct  unpardonable.  Madame  Maupin  was 

[284] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

one  of  the  first  to  hear  what  scandal  her  son  was 
causing. 

"Well,"  she  said,  coming  home  one  evening,  "I  hear 
strange  stories  in  town!  It  seems  that  our  Stephen  has 
fallen  in  love  with  the  little  Desroches  girl!" 

She  told  her  husband  what  stories  were  circulating. 

The  old  banker  only  smiled.  He  was  not  sorry  to 
find  that  Stephen  had  become  less  puritanic,  and  ap- 
plauded himself  for  the  advice  he  had  given  his  son. 

"Well,  what  next?"  he  replied,  cheerily.  "He 
amuses  himself — that  is  natural;  he  is  of  the  right  age 
for  such  diversions.  Surely,  you  did  not  think  he  would 
all  his  life  long  hide  himself  behind  your  petticoats?" 

"But  he  makes  people  talk  of  the  girl!" 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  her  and  her  father.  Instead 
of  troubling  himself  with  politics,  the  old  man  ought  to 
watch  over  his  child.  Stephen  is  a  young  man,  and, 
like  all  young  men,  he  is  running  after  the  girls." 

"That  is  immoral,  my  dear,  and,  what  is  worse,  it  is 
dangerous!  Suppose  Stephen  should  take  matters  in 
earnest  and  one  of  these  days  come  and  ask  for  your 
consent  to  marry  the  girl?" 

The  banker  whistled  ironically.  "  I  should  like  to  see 
that!  However,"  and  here  the  scar  across  his  mouth 
changed  color,  and  gave  him  a  savagely  cruel  expres- 
sion, "I  have  the  means  to  get  rid  of  the  girl  should  she 
ever  become  troublesome.  Don't  talk  of  it  with  your 
son.  I  am  awake,  and  you  can  go  to  sleep  in  safety." 

But  Madame  Maupin  was  not  entirely  reassured. 
She  trembled  lest  these  reports  should  reach  the  old 
doctor's  ears,  and  he  should  hold  Stephen  to  account. 

[285] 


ANDRtf  THEURIET 

October  had  come,  and  the  days  were  getting  both 
shorter  and  less  trustworthy  so  far  as  the  weather  was 
concerned.  One  afternoon,  when  Stephen  was  ap- 
proaching the  end  of  his  task,  and  the  portrait  was 
nearly  finished,  they  were  surprised  by  a  sudden  shower, 
and  had  to  run  to  seek  refuge  in  one  of  the  nearest  cot- 
tages. The  farmer's  wife  took  them  both  into  a  dark 
room,  which  was  at  once  her  kitchen  and  her  bedroom, 
and  here  she  left  them  alone.  Everything  betrayed  the 
wretched  poverty  of  the  owners.  The  two  young  people 
looked  at  each  other,  and  although  they  had  spent  so 
many  hours  and  days  alone  with  each  other  in  the 
open  air,  they  now  for  the  first  time  felt  embarrassed. 

"What  a  wretched  place!"  said  Stephen.  "It  feels 
like  a  cave!" 

"Yes,"  replied  Therese,  "and  yet  these  people  live 
here  and  are  used  to  it." 

Stephen  saw  how  the  young  girl's  eyes  began  to  shine 
brightly  and  a  smile  played  on  her  lips. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?"  he  asked  her. 

"I  am  thinking,"  she  replied,  "how  you  would  look 
if  you  were  condemned  to  spend  your  life  here!" 

"I?"  he  exclaimed.  "The  place,  to  be  sure,  is  poor 
enough  and  wretched — and  yet,  I  should  be  happy  if  I 
could  lead  a  simple  life  here — with  you!" 

"Oh,  fie!"  she  said,  smiling,  but  shaking  her  head. 

"I  swear  it,  Therese!" 

Their  eyes  met  once  more  and  both  felt  a  sudden 
accession  of  melting  tenderness.  Stephen  had  seized 
Therese's  hands. 

The  farmer's  wife  was  shaking  her  wooden  shoes  at 
[>86] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

the  door  before  coming  in.  The  young  people  let  go 
their  hands  and  she  entered. 

"You  left  home  in  a  very  bad  state  of  the  weather, 
my  little  one,"  she  said,  dropping  a  little  curtsey,  "and 
so  have  you  done,  Monsieur  Maupin;  but  you  need 
only  have  a  little  patience.  The  sky  is  clearing  up  to- 
ward Saint  Clement — it  was  only  a  heavy  shower." 

In  fact,  already  the  kitchen  had  become  a  little  lighter 
and  a  milky  whiteness  appeared  on  the  sky.  A  quarter 
of  an  hour  later  the  rain  ceased  altogether  and  the 
young  people  could  leave  the  house.  But  the  roads 
were  deep  in  mud,  and  Stephen  would  not  let  Therese 
go  home  alone. 

Therese  left  her  friend  at  the  first  bridge,  and  when 
she  at  last  reached  her  home,  she  found  the  Doctor 
standing  in  the  vestibule  of  his  house;  he  seized  her 
rudely  by  the  arm  and  thrust  her  into  the  library.  Then 
he  locked  the  door  and  asked  her: 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

Th6rese  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  the  question 
and  at  the  tone  in  which  it  was  asked. 

"  I  went  to  the  Angels'  Mill  and  was  caught  in  the 
rain!" 

"You  were  walking,  and  alone?" 

Therese  blushed  slightly.  "No!"  she  answered. 
"Why?" 

"Because  I  should  like  to  know  the  companion  with 
whom  you  were  running  about  over  the  country." 

She  raised  her  head  and  replied,  in  a  firm  voice:  "It 
was  Monsieur  Stephen  Maupin  !" 

"Really?  And  you  do  not  die  for  shame  when  you 
]287] 


ANDRfe  THEURIET 

confess  it  ?  It  is  not  enough  that  you  forget  the  reserve 
which  an  honest  girl  must  show;  to  be  pointed  at  with 
scorn  you  must  needs  go  and  choose  the  son  of  the 
man  who  has  robbed  me  !" 

"I  have  done  nothing  to  be  pointed  at  with  scorn  !" 
Therese  said;  "as  to  Monsieur  Stephen  Maupin,  if  his 
father  has  done  wrong,  he  is  the  very  first  man  to  re- 
gret it,  and  he  is  an  honest  man,  I  am  sure!" 

"And  I  must  accept  your  certificate  of  honesty?" 
asked  the  father,  with  a  laughter  full  of  sarcasm. 

"Yes,  for  I  have  never  told  a  falsehood  in  my  life, 
and  when  I  tell  you  on  what  occasion  I  made  Monsieur 
Maupin' s  acquaintance,  you  will  be  less  surprised  that 
we  should  have  become  friends." 

"To  be  sure,"  he  replied,  ironically,  "I  am  all  anx- 
iety to  know  this  edifying  story  in  all  its  details." 

She  told  him  very  frankly  and  briefly  what  had 
occurred  at  the  famous  wedding,  then  of  her  meeting 
with  Stephen  at  the  Angels'  Spring,  and  the  sittings  for 
the  portrait,  as  if  it  were  the  simplest  and  most  natural 
matter  in  the  world. 

"Thus  this  clandestine  intercourse  has  gone  on  two 
months  already?" 

"There  was  nothing  stealthy  about  it — why  should 
we  hide?  We  were  doing  nothing  wrong." 

"What?  Nothing  wrong?"  he  laughed,  scornfully, 
"you  will  next  try  to  persuade  me  that  you  spent  your 
time  in  reciting  Paternosters?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Therese,  "but  I 
feel  that  you  are  cruel,  unutterably  cruel,  to  your  child. 
It  may  be,  since  you  assert  it,  that  my  conduct  has  been 

[288] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

thoughtless,  incautious,  and  it  may  also  be  that  I  have 
done,  without  knowing  it,  things  which  the  world  con- 
siders wrong,  but  let  me  tell  you  in  my  turn,  that  if  I  had 
been  loved  more  and  guided  better,  I  would  have  -acted 
with  more  discernment ;  I  should  have  been  a  well  edu- 
cated and  prudent  girl,  like  others,  if  my  father— 

"Your  father!"  broke  in  Dr.  Desroches,  furiously, 
"do  not  speak  of  your  father!  You  bear  my  name,  to 
be  sure,  but  let  me  tell  you  once  for  all  time — you  can 
hear  it  now — I  have  always  doubted  that  you  are  my 
daughter — and  now  I  believe  it  less  than  ever!" 

Therese  sank  upon  the  floor,  and,  her  brow  leaning 
on  the  edge  of  the  table,  her  face  hid  in  her  hands,  re- 
mained thus,  crushed  with  shame  and  humiliation. 

Dr.  Desroches,  in  spite  of  his  anger  and  the  tempest 
of  furious  passions  which  this  scene  had  let  loose,  felt 
that  he  had  gone  too  far  and  was  ashamed  of  his  own 
severity.  In  his  dried-up  heart  arose  an  instinct  of 
pity;  his  lips  opened  and  he  was  about  to  speak  a  word 
of  compassion  to  his  child.  But  he  was  too  wise  not  to 
know  that  there  are  wounds  which  never  heal.  He 
knew  that  certain  words,  once  pronounced,  can  not,  by 
any  power  on  earth,  be  made  unsaid.  He  suddenly 
turned  on  his  heel,  opened  the  door  on  the  staircase- 
landing,  slammed  it  violently,  and  left  Therese  alone. 


19  [  289  ] 


CHAPTER  VII 

COMPLICATIONS 

'T  the  house  of  President  Lourdeval 
they  were  celebrating  the  natal  day 
of  his  wife,  Leonarde.  Every  year 
on  the  sixth  of  November,  the  hus- 
band availed  himself  of  this  occa- 
sion to  invite  the  members  of  his 
Courts,  the  principal  functionaries  of 
St.  Clement,  and  a  few  intimate 
friends,  to  come  and  spend  the  evening  at  his  house. 

This  year  the  day  had  been  rainy.  The  poor  ladies 
who  possessed  no  carriages,  and  had  no  kind  friends 
more  favored  by  fortune  to  offer  them  seats  in  their 
vehicles,  did  not  hesitate  to  put  heavy  wooden  shoes 
over  their  delicate  silk  hotlines  to  defy  the  muddy 
roads,  for  the  house  stood  at  a  long  distance  from  the 
last  town-house. 

The  President,  remarkable  for  his  great  height  and 
his  habit  of  complimenting  all  and  every  one,  went  for- 
ward to  meet  the  ladies  as  they  were  announced,  and  in 
his  fine  old  fashion  kissed  their  hands.  Madame  Lour- 
deval allowed  him  to  play  the  butterfly  around  the 
ladies,  as  she  sat  enthroned  majestically  in  her  chair. 

She  was  aided  in  doing  the  honors  of  the  house  by 
her  three  nieces,  the  Mesdemoiselles  Boisse.  Their 

[290] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

family  was  old ;  it  went  back  as  far  as  the  days  of  Fair 
Melusine,  but  unfortunately  it  was  as  poor  as  it  was 
old,  and  the  three  Graces  had  no  dower! 

Among  the  last  comers  were  Madame  Maupin  and 
her  son.  The  banker  had  sent  his  excuses,  but  his  wife, 
full  of  ambitious  desires,  took  care  not  to  miss  such  an 
opportunity  of  getting  into  society.  Stephen  had  ac- 
companied her  for  another  reason.  He  knew  that  Dr. 
Desroches  and  the  President  were  old  friends  from 
childhood  up,  and  he  had  come  in  the  hope  of  meeting 
Th£rese.  For  nearly  a  month — ever  since  the  day  of 
the  storm — he  had  not  seen  her  again.  Stephen  had 
haunted  the  street  where  she  lived,  but  in  vain ;  he  had 
not  missed  a  mass — all  in  vain!  Since  he  had  entered 
the  President's  house,  he  had  forgotten  nearly  all  his 
social  duties;  searching  every  room,  looking  into  every 
corner,  he  presently  saw  Dr.  Desroches  and  his  daugh- 
ter enter  the  room. 

Madame  Lourdeval  received  the  Doctor  ceremoni- 
ously, and  dryly  welcomed  his  daughter,  whom  the 
President,  with  many  compliments  and  fine  speeches, 
led  to  an  empty  chair  near  the  embrasure  of  a  window. 
Therese  felt  that  she  was  received  with  curiosity  and  an 
attention  not  overkind.  She  divined  that  at  this  mo- 
ment her  face,  her  dress,  her  smallest  gestures,  were 
observed  and  commented  upon  by  all  the  women  and 
the  majority  of  the  men  in  the  room.  This  embarrassed 
her  to  such  a  degree  that  she  hardly  dared  move. 
Stephen,  after  a  time,  profited  by  the  general  movement 
to  slip  into  the  window  embrasure  near  which  Therese 
was  sitting.  He  tried  to  meet  Therese's  eyes  but  she 

[291] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

seemed,  on  the  contrary,  determined  to  avoid  his.  Pres- 
ently he  heard  her  voice  appealing  to  him,  and  saying: 
"I  pray  you,  do  not  remain  near  me!" 

She  spoke  in  short,  nervous  accents. 

"Why?"  asked  young  Maupin.  "What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"I  can  not  tell  you,  but  I  beseech  you,  for  God's  sake, 
leave  me!" 

Astonished  and  distressed,  Stephen  dared  not  insist. 
He  obeyed  and  left  the  window. 

In  the  mean  time,  tables  for  the  games  had  been 
arranged  in  the  large  drawing-room.  Stephen  seated 
himself  between  his  mother  and  one  of  the  nieces;  op- 
posite him  sat  Therese.  The  game  they  were  playing 
fortunately  required  but  little  attention;  the  players 
could  give  free  course  to  their  tongues  while  they  picked 
up  or  laid  down  their  cards.  Hence  the  conversation 
was  very  lively,  touching  now  upon  this  and  now  upon 
that  new  subject,  interrupted  only  by  the  bursts  of 
laughter,  the  questions  of  the  banker,  or  the  wails  of  the 
losers. 

"I  want  a  card! — Do  you  hear  the  wind?  How  it 
blows !  What  weather ! ' ' 

"Yes!  Winter  begins  early. — A  card! — No  more 
walks  in  the  country!" 

Glances  fell  upon  Therese,  but  she  seemed  not  to 
notice  the  allusion. 

"Do  you  know,  ladies,"  said  the  banker,  in  a  moment 
of  leisure,  "that  we  have  an  artist  at  Saint  Clement?" 

All  eyes  fell  upon  Stephen.  "Really?"  asked  some 
one.  Madame  Maupin  sat  upon  thorns. 

f  292  ] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"Yes,"  continued  the  speaker,  innocently,  "we  have 
a  photographer  here,  who  came  a  week  ago,  and  is  stay- 
ing at  the  Green  Oak.  His  portraits  are  excellent." 

' '  We  have  seen  them, ' '  said  the  oldest  niece .  ' '  Mam- 
ma thinks  of  having  us  photographed." 

"What,  Mademoiselle  Cesarine,  shall  you  risk  it? 
They  say  the  instruments  make  you  look  very  ugly!" 

"Oh!"  she  replied,  looking  fixedly  at  Therese,  "we 
poor  girls  do  not  have  the  good  fortune  of  finding  an 
artist  to  paint  our  portrait." 

Madame  Maupin,  who  felt  ill  at  ease,  changed  the 
subject  of  conversation  and  spoke  of  a  young  lady  who 
had  taken  the  black  veil  in  a  convent  of  the  Benedictine 
nuns. 

"I  understand  how  one  can  take  the  veil,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Cesarine  again,  "but  if  I  were  to  leave 
the  world,  I  should  choose  the  strictest  of  all  orders. 
I  should  become  a  Carmelite — and  you,  Mademoiselle 
Desroches?" 

"I? — I  have  no  opinion  on  the  subject.  I  am  not 
fond  of  convents." 

At  this  reply  the  ladies  looked  at  each  other,  shocked. 

"Mademoiselle  Desroches  is  very  right!"  exclaimed 
Stephen. 

Cesarine  replied  with  bitter  irony:  "Mademoiselle 
Therese  does  not  like  convents,  she  prefers  the  open 
air  and  long  walks  in  the  country!" 

"What  would  you  have,  Mademoiselle  Cesarine. 
We  can  not  all  have  a  vocation  for  celibacy!" 

This  reply  came  cruelly  home  to  Mademoiselle 
Boisse,  who  had  two  or  three  times  been  on  the  point  of 

[293] 


ANDR^  THEURIET 

being  married.  She  turned  as  red  as  a  poppy.  It  was 
her  turn  next  to  keep  bank.  She  got  together  with 
trembling  hands  the  two  packs  of  cards,  shuffled  them 
furiously,  and  abandoning  the  game  they  had  been 
playing  so  far,  she  dealt  two  cards  to  each  player  with 
the  sacramental  question:  Sympathy  or  Antipathy? 
The  player  won  or  lost  according  as  his  answer  was  in 
harmony  with  the  card  that  was  turned  up.  When  Ce- 
sarine  reached  Therese,  she  looked  at  her  in  the  most 
impertinent  manner  and  asked,  imperiously:  "Sym- 
pathy or  Antipathy  ?  "  Therese  bravely  met  her  adver- 
sary's eye  and  with  a  vibrating  voice  she  said:  "An- 
tipathy!" 

Her  expression  of  face  and  her  accent  left  no  doubt 
on  any  one's  mind  as  to  the  meaning  she  meant  to  give 
to  her  answer.  Some  of  the  young  people  could  not 
conceal  their  ironical  smiles.  Cesarine  caught  them, 
and  feeling  beaten,  the  tears  flowed  from  her  eyes.  She 
threw  the  cards  upon  the  floor  and  rose,  crying:  "When 
people  insult  me  I  give  way!" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  President's  wife. 

"Mademoiselle  Desroches  has  insulted  me!"  replied 
the  niece,  breaking  out  in  sobs. 

"What,  Therese,  can  this  be?" 

"Your  niece  is  mistaken,  Madame,"  replied  The*- 
rese,  "I  only  answered  her  question." 

"Oh!  what  a  story!"  exclaimed  the  insulted  lady. 
"It  is  the  tone  that  makes  the  insult,  and  your  tone  of 
voice  was  an  insult — I  take  all  these  gentlemen  to  be 
my  witnesses!" 

"I  maintain,"  cried  Stephen,  excitedly,  "that  the 
[294] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

only  person  here  who  has  a  right  to  complain  is  Made- 
moiselle Therese !" 

"Oh,"  replied  Mademoiselle  Cesarine,  with  a  con- 
vulsive laugh,  "  Monsieur  Maupin  defends  Mademoi- 
selle Desroches!  Of  course,  that  is  quite  natural!" 

At  the  same  moment,  however,  a  hand  was  laid  upon 
the  young  man's  shoulder,  rudely  pressing  it.  "By 
what  right,  young  man,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  his  icy 
voice,  "do  you  appear  here  as  the  defender  of  my 
daughter?  There  is  only  one  man  here  who  has  that 
right,  and  that  man  is  her  father.  I  forbid  you  to  med- 
dle with  my  affairs!  Come,  Therese,  let  us  go!" 

He  took  the  young  girl  by  the  arm  and  they  left  the 
room,  while  Stephen  remained  distressed.  Madame 
Maupin  bit  her  lips,  and  the  bystanders,  shocked  and 
delighted  at  once,  began  to  whisper. 

Toward  midnight  Madame  Maupin  entered  her  con- 
jugal chamber,  roused  her  husband  from  his  slumbers 
and  told  him  the  unpleasant  occurrences  of  the  evening. 
"I  had  foreseen  it  all,"  she  said,  "but  you  would  not 
listen;  now  this  little  absurdity  will  give  us  trouble." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  the  banker,  frowning, 
"these  Desroches  are  becoming  dangerous,  but  never 
mind,  I  have  an  idea  that  they  will  not  trouble  us  much 
longer." 


[2951 


CHAPTER   VIII 

FLIGHT 

T  was  the  third  day  of  December  and 
a  bitter  cold  morning.  Celestin  Tif- 
fin, his  overcoat  drawn  over  his  ears 
and  walking  very  carefully,  was  cross- 
ing the  square  on  his  way  to  the  bank. 
At  the  corner  of  the  cafe  he  saw  a 
very  unusual  scene;  a  small  crowd  of 
curious  people  had  assembled  around 
some  placards.  The  young  man  went  up  to  the  three 
notices. 

The  first  of  these  papers  decreed  the  dissolution  of 
the  National  Assembly;  the  second  was  the  well  known 
effort  Napoleon  made  to  justify  the  coup  d'etat;  and 
the  third  admonished  all  good  citizens  to  rejoice  and  to 
keep  calm.  "Now  more  than  ever/'  this  paper  con- 
cluded, "the  wicked  ought  to  tremble  and  the  good  to 
be  reassured." 

Celestin  had  just  finished  reading  the  last  paper, 
when  he  heard  a  voice  growling  near  him :  ' '  Infamous ! ' ' 
He  turned  round  and  saw  it  was  Dr.  Desroches  in  his 
long  black  overcoat,  buttoned  up  to  the  throat,  bran- 
dishing his  cane  in  a  threatening  manner  at  the  placards. 
"This  is  a  crime,"  he  cried;  "the  man  who  has  done 
that  is  a  traitor — is  outside  of  the  law,  and  those  who 

[296] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

have  stuck  up  these  proclamations  have  committed  an 
illegal  act.  That  is  what  good  citizens  ought  to  say 
of  it." 

Eight  o'clock  was  striking,  and  Celestin  hastened  to 
reach  the  office  in  time;  as  he  walked  along  with  rapid 
strides,  he  thought  of  the  Doctor's  words.  He  was 
greatly  excited  when  he  reached  the  bank,  and  here  he 
found  others  similarly  irritated  and  eagerly  discussing 
the  legality  of  the  President's  acts. 

"After  all,"  said  the  old  cashier,  "if  it  is  true  that 
they  were  going  to  turn  him  out,  he  is  right,  this  man, 
to  be  ahead  of  them,  and  to  sweep  them  all  out." 

"No!"  cried  Celestin,  "no,  a  man  is  never  right  if 
he  breaks  his  word,  and  this  man  had  sworn  to  observe 
the  Constitution!" 

"What!"  cried  one  of  the  younger  clerks,  "is  Celes- 
tin becoming  a  politician?" 

"This  is  not  a  question  of  politics,"  the  young  man 
said,  bravely,  "but  of  honesty.  What  would  you  think 
of  a  man,  who  had  sworn  fidelity  to  his  master,  and  in 
the  night  would  go  and  break  open  his  bank?  I  am 
only  a  poor  little  clerk,  but  this  coup  d'etat  goes  against 
my  conscience." 

"Hear!  hear!  Now  Celestin  has  become  an  orator!" 

"Yes,"  cried  the  young  man,  losing  control  over 
himself,  "I  shall  protest  against  it  as  an  illegal  act,  and 
I  shall  not  be  alone;  there  will  be  other  people " 

At  this  moment  a  heavy  step  was  heard  outside, 
and  one  of  the  clerks,  more  curious  than  the  others, 
looked  out:  "A  gendarme!  and  he  is  coming  here!" 
he  exclaimed. 

[297] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

Tiffin  was  thunderstruck.  The  steps  approached, 
the  door  opened,  and  the  gendarme  appeared  in  the 
opening  in  the  full  splendor  of  his  three-cornered  hat, 
his  old-fashioned  uniform  buttoned  back,  and  his 
broad,  yellow  shoulder-belt. 

"Monsieur  Maupin!"  said  the  man  of  war,  saluting, 
military  fashion. 

He  was  told  that  the  banker  was  in  his  office. 

"Inform  him,  if  you  please,  that  they  want  him 
instantly  at  the  Sub-prefect's  office.  Matter  of  ur- 
gency!'7 he  added. 

And  turning  stiffly  round,  he  saluted  and  left,  reliev- 
ing Celestin,  whose  heart  had  been  beating  furiously. 

For  a  month  or  so,  M.  Maupin  had  been  frequently 
sent  for  in  the  same  way,  so  that  the  message  did  not 
surprise  any  one.  While  the  cashier  was  going  upstairs 
to  deliver  it,  one  of  the  clerks  murmured  audibly: 
"Anyhow,  Tiffin  has  had  a  nice  shock!" 

Five  minutes  later  the  banker  came  down,  putting  on 
his  gloves  and  buttoning  his  overcoat. 

He  did  not  return  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
first  thing  he  did  was  to  send  for  the  unlucky  clerk, 
who  went  up,  shaking  and  trembling  all  over,  and  tim- 
idly knocked  at  the  door.  "Come  in!"  cried  a  rough 
voice,  and  he  went  in. 

The  banker,  bent  over  his  table,  was  writing  a  letter; 
he  did  not  even  turn  to  look  at  his  clerk.  At  last  he 
condescended  to  turn  his  chair  half  way  round  and  to 
cast  a  furious  look  at  the  poor  young  man. 

"So,"  he  said,  "you  meddle  with  politics  now?  You 
dare  criticise  the  acts  of  Government?  And  you  are 

[298] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

not  afraid  to  disseminate  such  rebellious  views  in  my 
house?  You  bite  the  hand  of  your  benefactor!  You 
are  a  monster  of  ingratitude !" 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur  Maupin!"  Celestin  stam- 
mered, "I  have  done  wrong;  I  am  in  despair  if  I  have 
spoken  without  weighing  the  effect  my  words  might 
possibly  have  on  others;  I  humbly  ask  pardon." 

"Idiot!"  continued  the  banker,  playing  now  on  the 
chord  of  terror,  after  making  the  chord  of  feeling  vi- 
brate its  best,  "you  dare  raise  your  voice  against  your 
monarch,  who  has  saved  society  once  more?  But,  you 
worm,  you,  don't  you  know  that  a  word  from  him  would 
suffice  to  send  you  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth?" 

"Oh!  master,  I  am  lost!"  cried  the  clerk.  "Have 
mercy  on  me,  and  if  not  on  me,  have  mercy  on  my  poor 
wife!" 

"Well!"  growled  M.  Maupin,  "be  it  so!  I  will  over- 
look it  this  time,  but  on  one  condition:  You  must  fully 
and  frankly  act  with  us!  To  begin:  You  were  this 
morning  present  when  Doctor  Desroches  was  making  a 
great  fool  of  himself  and  tearing  down  the  proclama- 
tions— were  you  not?  Well,  then,  tell  me  the  whole 
story  with  all  the  details!" 

The  poor  clerk  saw  the  trap  in  which  he  was  caught, 
and  blushed.  Dr.  Desroches  was  to  be  ruined,  and  he 
was  to  be  the  instrument  that  was  to  bring  about  his 
ruin!  What  could  he  do?  He  told  the  story  as  it  had 
happened. 

"Now,  come  with  me,"  said  Maupin,  "and  tell  the 
same  story  to  the  Sub-prefect  and  to  the  Attorney- 
General!" 

[299] 


,     ANDRE  THEURIET 

"But,"  said  poor  Celestin,  blushing  again,  "that 
would  be  a  regular  denunciation!" 

"Ah!"  said  M.  Maupin,  "what  big  words  you  use!" 
He  rose,  faced  his  terrified  clerk,  and  said : 

"Very  well!  You  can  do  it  or  not  do  it,  as  you  like! 
If  you  refuse  to  repeat  to  these  gentlemen  what  you 
have  just  confessed  to  me,  I  turn  you  out  this  morning. 
I  do  not  wish  to  keep  in  my  house  a  man  who  delivers 
revolutionary  speeches,  and  associates  with  men  openly 
defying  the  will  of  our  sovereign!  I  give  you  five  min- 
utes for  reflection!" 

He  then  turned  his  back  upon  him,  resumed  his 
chair  and  went  on  writing  again.  The  wretched  clerk 
saw  in  the  air  the  dark  figures  of  the  judges,  the  cells  of 
the  public  prison,  even  the  "Black  Maria"  that  was  to 
take  him  to  the  ship.  Perhaps  he  should  never  see  his 
wife  again !  A  sob  escaped  and  the  banker  looked  at  him. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

"Very  well!  Go  down,  get  your  hat  and  come  back 
here!  But  before  this  is  settled,  mind  this:  If  you 
breathe  to  a  living  being  a  word  of  what  has  happened 
or  of  what  you  hear,  you  are  to-morrow  in  jail!" 

Five  minutes  later  the  banker  drove  to  the  residence 
of  the  Sub-prefect,  with  the  unhappy  clerk. 

He  did  not  return  home  till  six  o'clock,  and  went  di- 
rectly upstairs  to  his  wife's  room. 

"Laura,"  he  said,  "the  old  mayor  is  dismissed  and 
I  have  the  appointment  in  my  pocket.  To-morrow  I 
think  we  shall  be  rid  of  those  Desroches!  All  is  going 
on  well.  Only,  keep  your  son  from  going  out  to-night, 
and  let  him  put  a  lock  on  his  mouth!" 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

Somewhat  later,  about  eight  o'clock,  a  man  of  tall 
stature,  wrapped  up  in  a  cloak,  turned  the  corner  of 
Main  Street,  keeping  close  to  the  houses.  The  man 
stopped  at  Dr.  Desroches's  house,  opened  the  gate  in 
the  railing  of  the  court  and  made  his  way  into  the  ves- 
tibule and  then  went  upstairs.  He  quickly  entered  the 
room  and  found  the  Doctor,  as  usual,  sitting  in  his  arm- 
chair. At  the  noise  of  the  opening  door  he  turned  round 
and  saw  the  President,  who  was  taking  off  his  cloak. 

"Lourdeval!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  recognized  his 
visitor. 

"Hush!"  replied  the  latter  in  a  mysterious  whisper. 
"Nobody  has  seen  me  come  in,  and  I  do  not  care  to  be 
seen.  You  know,  of  course,  unhappy  man,  why  I  am 
here.  You  are  in  great  danger!" 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"You  have  been  informed  against  by  Maupin,  who 
can  not  endure  the  sight  of  you.  One  of  his  clerks  wit- 
nessed your  destruction  of  the  proclamations.  The 
banker  took  him  to  headquarters,  made  him  repeat  all 
he  saw  and  heard,  and " 

"Well?" 

"You  are  about  to  be  arrested!" 

The  Doctor  smiled  ironically.  "Ah!  Maupin  has 
become  a  spy!  A  good  recruit  for  the  new  cause!" 

"I  have  arranged  it  so,"  continued  the  President, 
"that  the  order  to  arrest  you  shall  not  be  executed  to- 
night, but  to-morrow  morning  the  gendarmes  will  be 
here.  You  must  get  away  to-night  and  flee  across  the 
frontier.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  your  daughter; 
we  will  take  care  of  her." 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"Very  well!"  said  the  Doctor,  calmly,  getting  up. 
"I  thank  you,  Lourdeval!  I  shall  leave  to-night !" 

They  shook  hands.  The  President  concealed  himself 
again  in  his  cloak.  "Good  luck,  poor  old  man!  "  he 
said.  "Try  to  keep  your  servant  out  of  my  way! 
Adieu!" 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Desroches  sought  his  daugh- 
ter's chamber.  She  was  sewing  near  an  almost  dying 
fire,  Dacho,  the  great  Dane,  at  her  feet.  "Ah!  you 
are  still  up!  Do  not  go  to  bed  till  you  have  seen  me 
again!  I  have  to  talk  to  you!" 

Then  he  returned  to  the  library,  and  emptied  drawer 
after  drawer,  throwing  the  contents  into  the  fire.  When 
all  was  burned,  he  took  a  razor  and  cut  off  his  big 
beard;  no  one  would  easily  have  recognized  him. 
Then  he  dressed  himself  as  he  always  did  for  his  visits 
to  the  country,  put  money  into  his  pockets,  and  went 
once  more  to  Therese' s  room. 

When  she  saw  her  father's  shaved  face  and  his  cos- 
tume, she  started.  "Therese,"  said  the  father,  "I  am 
threatened  with  an  arrest  to-morrow  morning!  The 
Maupins  have  informed  against  me.  I  endanger  the 
safety  of  the  father  and  I  interfere  with  the  pleasures 
of  the  son.  You  have  given  your  heart  to  a  nice  man! 
I  must  leave  this  very  night!" 

Therese  threw  herself  upon  his  arm,  and  cried : 

"Take  me  with  you!" 

"Do  not  speak  so  loud,"  said  the  Doctor,  taking  her 
hands  off  his  arm.  "What  you  ask  is  impossible.  Here 
is  a  little  money;  keep  it  carefully.  Now,"  he  added, 
with  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice,  "we  are  going  to  part 

[302] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

— Heaven  knows  for  how  long.  After  what  has  hap- 
pened, and  what  I  have  told  you  of  your  mother,  we 
can  not  well  have  scenes  of  great  tenderness — I  only 
regret  leaving  you  here  alone  and  without  means,  but 
the  President  has  promised  me  he  will  take  care  of 
you— 

"That  is  useless.  I  do  not  want  to  be  under  obliga- 
tions to  any  one  here." 

"And  what  will  you  do?" 

"I  shall  leave  to-morrow  for  Poitiers  and  go  out  to 
the  farm  of  my  nurse;  there  are  people  there  who  love 
me  and  who  will  watch  over  me." 

"Very  well.  I  prefer  that,  I  believe."  He  took  his 
cane  and  went  to  the  glass  door  that  opened  upon  the 
garden.  "I  shall  get  out  by  the  garden-gate  and  take 
to  the  country  at  once.  Do  not  come  with  me — t*  is 
more  prudent.  Good-by ! ' ' 

He  opened  the  door,  and  plunged  into  the 
ous  night. 


[303] 


CHAPTER  IX 

FAMILY  QUARRELS 

HE  news  of  the  coup  d'etat  had  excited 
Stephen  Maupin  much  more  than  was 
generally  supposed.  On  that  fatal 
night  of  the  third  of  December  his 
mother  had  succeeded  in  keeping  him 
at  home,  but  early  the  next  morning 
he  went  down  into  the  town.  The 
first  person  he  met  was  Celestin, 
who  looked  as  if  he  had  not  slept  for  a  year. 

"  You  look  badly,"  he  said  to  him.    "  I  hope  Madame 
Tiffin  is  not  unwell." 

"Oh,  no!    But  have  you  not  heard  the  sad  news? 
You  know  Mademoiselle  Therese  Desroches,  who  was 

at  my  wedding " 

"What  has  happened  to  her?"  Stephen  asked,  turn- 
ing deadly  pale. 

"Her  father  was  to  have  been  arrested  this  morn- 
ing!" 

"  Is  it  possible  ?    Are  you  sure  ?  " 
Poor  Celestin  was  but  too  sure. 
"Just  think  of  the  poor  young  lady!"  he  said,  after 
telling  what  he  knew.    "What  is  to  become  of  her— 
alone,  and  at  her  age  ?    The  poor  lady ! " 

Stephen  listened  no  longer,  but  hastening  to  the 
[304] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

house  of  Dr.  Desroches  he  rushed  in  and  found  the 
servant  in  the  kitchen  lamenting  their  fate. 

"Where  is  Doctor  Desroches?"  asked  the  young 
man.  The  girl  simply  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Has  he  been  arrested?" 

"They  came  to  take  him,  but  they  did  not  find  him— 
oh,  the  poor  man!" 

"And  Mademoiselle  Therese?" 

"She  is  upstairs!" 

He  rapidly  ran  up  the  stairs  and  entered  the  library. 

Therese  was  sitting  in  her  father's  chair,  her  head  in 
her  hands,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  space.  At  the 
sound  of  steps  she  slowly  turned,  but  when  she  per- 
ceived young  Maupin,  she  rose,  and,  with  an  indignant 
air,  said  to  him: 

"How  dare  you  intrude  here?  Do  you  also  come 
in  search  of  him?  He  has  escaped  in  time,  God  be 
thanked,  and  his  enemies  will  not  find  him!" 

"I  was  afraid  he  might  have  been  arrested,"  replied 
Stephen,  "and  I  took  the  liberty  of  coming  in  to  offer 
you " 

He  stammered  and  stopped,  disconcerted  by  the 
strange  look  of  contempt  which  he  read  in  Therese' s 
face. 

"Offer  what?"  she  asked  with  bitter  irony,  "your 
kind  advice?  Yesterday  it  would  have  been  accept- 
able!" 

"Yesterday!"  he  said,  amazed.  "But  I  knew  noth- 
ing. I  have  only  heard  of  it  this  morning." 

"Why  will  you  tell  a  falsehood?"  she  said,  angrily. 
"You  knew  it  all,  just  as  well  as  Celestin  Tiffin.  Both 
20  [  30$  1 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

of  you  knew  very  well  that  your  father  had  betrayed 
him." 

"My  father!  Mademoiselle  Desroches,  your  anger 
blinds  you !  How  could  you  ever  think  my  father  capa- 
ble of  such  villainy?" 

"I  believe  Monsieur  Maupin  to  be  capable  of  any- 
thing. He  disliked  my  father,  we  annoyed  him — he 
simply  has  gotten  rid  of  us!  We  have  proofs  enough!" 

"Proofs!"  he  said.  "What  proofs  have  you  against 
us?" 

"Yesterday  your  father  went  to  see  the  Sub-prefect 
and  informed  against  my  father.  He  took  Monsieur 
Tiffin  with  him  to  support  the  accusation,  and  upon 
their  testimony  my  father  has  been  arrested.  Question 
Celestin,  and  if  he  is  not  entirely  lost  to  honor,  he  will 
confess  the  truth!" 

"But  that  would  be  infamous." 

"It  is  so.  However,"  she  added,  sadly,  "what  is  the 
use  of  explanations?  Leave  me.  I  am  tired.  I  am 
going  to  leave  here,  and  in  going  away  I  have  but  one 
wish:  that  I  may  be  able  to  forget  the  name  of  Mau- 
pin and  all  who  bear  it." 

"Mademoiselle  Desroches,"  said  Stephen,  trembling 
with  excitement,  "if  what  you  say  is  true,  I  have  no 
right  to  reproach  you ;  however,  I  venture  to  doubt  yet. 
But  if  it  is  really  so,  if  my  father  really  has  the  fatal 
power  which  you  attribute  to  him,  I  swear  by  all  that 
is  sacred  that  before  the  evening  has  set  in  he  shall  have 
made  ample  amends  for  all  he  has  done,  or  all  is  over 
between  him  and  me " 

He  tried  once  more  to  catch  Therese's  eye,  but  she 
[306] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

had  turned  her  face  away  from  him.  Then  he  left  the 
room  hastily,  and  soon  he  was  in  the  vestibule  of  his 
own  house,  and  without  knocking,  entered  the  banker's 
office. 

M.  Maupin,  all  in  black,  was  opening  his  letters  at 
his  table,  where  his  hat  and  his  gloves,  lying  ready, 
showed  that  he  was  about  to  go  out.  When  he  saw  his 
son  come  in  so  abruptly,  he  frowned  and  said: 

"Since  when  is  this  room  as  public  as  a  mill?  And 
could  you  not  have  asked  first  whether  I  was  ready  to 
see  you  just  now  ?  I  do  not  like  such  ways,  you  know ! " 

"Father,"  began  Stephen,  losing  no  time  in  excuses, 
"the  gendarmes  have  been  at  Doctor  Desroches's 
house  to  arrest  him!" 

The  banker  looked  impassively  at  his  son.    "Well?" 

"They  say  he  has  been  informed  against  by  you  and 
Celestin  Tiffin!" 

M.  Maupin  could  not  repress  his  anger.  "Ah!  that 
fool  Tiffin  could  not  keep  his  tongue!  Thunder  of 
God !  I'll  make  him  swallow  it ! " 

"It  was  true,  then!"  said  the  son,  in  a  heartrending 
voice.  Then  he  continued,  in  a  calmer  tone:  "Tiffin 
has  not  talked.  I  have  heard  it  from  Mademoiselle 
Desroches,  from  whom  I  have  just  come." 

"Ah!  Then  the  young  lady  has  told  you  only  half 
the  truth:  Doctor  Desroehes  had  denounced  himself 
by  his  seditious  speeches  in  public.  He  was  considered 
a  danger  to  the  public  safety  and  it  became  my  official 
duty  to  order  his  arrest." 

"A  sad  business,  surely.  It  would  have  been  better 
to  let  Justice  act!" 

[307] 


ANDK6  THEURIET 

"My  duty,"  said  M.  Maupin,  drawing  himself  up, 
and  buttoning  his  overcoat,  "is  to  secure  the  success 
of  the  saving  act  of  December  second,  and  to  free 
the  country  of  all  who  would  destroy  it  by  fire  and 
sword!" 

"This  is  not  a  question  of  politics,  but  of  humanity," 
Stephen  replied.  "Think,  if  you  do  not  interfere,  this 
man  will  be  thrown  into  prison  or  forced  to  live  in  exile; 
in  either  case  he  is  ruined,  and  his  daughter,  a  child 
of  seventeen,  left  alone,  without  means,  exposed  to  a 
thousand  dangers " 

"Ah!"  said  the  banker,  almost  contemptuously, 
"what  fine  words!  That  girl  is  very  near  to  your 
heart,  is  she?" 

"Yes!"  Stephen  confessed,  imprudently,  "I  love 
her,  and  the  blow  you  are  aiming  at  her  strikes  me 
down!" 

M.  Maupin  smiled  ironically,  and,  crossing  his  arms, 
he  said: 

"And  you  expect  that  for  the  sake  of  a  foolish  sen- 
timent, for  a  miserable  little  love-affair,  I  am  to  stop 
the  proceedings  of  justice,  to  imperil  my  own  position, 
and  to  destroy  plans  carefully  prepared?  My  boy, 
you  know  little  yet  of  Simon  Maupin!  They  expect 
me  at  the  Mayor's  office.  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

"Father,"  Stephen  began  once  more  and  placed  him- 
self between  M.  Maupin  and  the  door.  "  Father,  do  not 
let  this  be  your  last  word!  Show  yourself  generous, 
just,  and  humane,  as  I  have  always  thought  you  were! 
I  beseech  you,  dear  father,  be  kind  and  good  as  you 
always  have  been  to  me,  since  I  was  a  child !  I  beseech 

[308] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

you  in  the  name  of  the  old  happiness  of  our  family,  of 
the  peace  and  repose  of  your  house — in  the  name  of  my 
mother!" 

"You  are  talking  nonsense!"  said  the  banker,  seizing 
his  hat,  "and  I  have  no  time  to  listen!"  He  pushed 
his  son  aside  and  slipped  out  of  the  small  side-door. 

When  she  found  herself  alone,  Therese  ordered  the 
maid  to  carry  her  trunk  to  the  stage-office.  The  stage 
for  Poitiers  had  left  in  the  morning,  and  Therese  was 
too  poor  to  hire  a  private  carriage.  She  had  deter- 
mined, therefore,  to  walk  the  two  long  miles  to  the 
White  House  rather  than  spend  another  day  in  this 
hateful  place.  She  put  a  shawl  around  her,  and, 
carrying  in  her  hand  a  small  bag  and  followed  by 
Dacho,  whom  she  did  not  like  to  leave  among  strangers, 
she  left  the  house  forever. 

She  took  some  by-streets,  and  thus  reached  the  turn- 
pike unnoticed.  A  fine  rain  was  falling,  and  soon  St. 
Clement  disappeared  behind  her  in  the  mist.  Pro- 
foundly saddened,  her  eyes  in  tears,  her  heart  swelling, 
Th£rese  walked  bravely  along  the  highroad  to  meet  the 
stage-coach. 


[309] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PRIX  DE  ROME 

T  was  the  time  when  painters  in  Paris 
are  always  in  a  state  of  unusual  ex- 
citement. On  the  twenty-third  of 
July,  the  works  of  the  young  aspirants 
for  fame  who  had  been  admitted  to 
compete  for  the  famous  "Prix  de 
Rome,"  were  to  be  exhibited  in  pub- 
lic. 

Eleven  o'clock  struck.  At  that  moment  the  great 
doors  opened,  and  the  whole  band,  with  loud  cries, 
rushed  into  the  vestibule  and  thence  into  the  Hall  of 
First  Prizes. 

In  the  background  of  the  hall  appeared  a  placard 
with  the  subject  prescribed  by  the  authorities:  "Ruth 
and  Boaz"  with  these  verses  from  the  Bible:  And  be- 
hold, Boaz  came  from  Bethlehem,  and  said  unto  the  reap- 
ers, The  Lord  be  with  you.  And  they  answered  him, 
The  Lord  bless  thee.  Then  said  Boaz  unto  his  servant 
that  was  set  over  the  reapers:  Whose  damsel  is  this? 
And  the  servant  that  was  set  over  the  reapers  answered 
and  said,  It  is  the  Moabitish  damsel  that  came  back  with 
Naomi  out  0}  the  country  of  Moab. 

Two  pictures  seemed  from  the  first  to  attract  the  curi- 
ous: one  with  the  number  three,  the  other  numbered 

[310] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

seven.  The  latter  especially  drew  the  crowd;  they 
formed  a  circle  around  the  easel  on  which  it  was  placed, 
and  there  was  a  moment  when  the  crowd  there  became 
so  dense  that  the  circulation  was  stopped. 

Number  Seven  had  conceived  and  executed  his 
painting  with  entire  disregard  of  classic  conventionality. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  turban  which  Boaz  wore,  the 
scene  would  have  recalled  an  ordinary  French  village. 
The  reapers,  bronzed  and  half  naked,  had  entirely 
modern  faces.  Ruth,  half  kneeling  in  the  rows  of 
wheat,  with  her  frock  turned  up,  a  piece  of  linen  on 
her  black  hair,  looked  exactly  like  a  fair  peasant 
woman  of  Touraine. 

"Eh!  That  is  Nature!"  said  one  painter  to  another. 
"You  feel  you  are  there!" 

"And  how  well  it's  done!  No  trick!  No  artifice! 
Look  at  those  hands!  Are  they  not  amazing?  Here  is 
a  man  who  can  draw,  and  who  does  not  tell  the  old 
story  over  again!" 

"He'll  get  the  prize!" 

Some  curious  people  went  behind  the  easel  to  dis- 
cover the  signature  of  the  canvas,  and  they  read  the 
name  out  aloud:  Stephen  Maupin. 

During  this  time  Stephen  Maupin  was  walking  im- 
patiently up  and  down  on  the  quay  of  the  Seine.  Every 
time  he  passed  Bonaparte  Street,  he  looked  with  fever- 
ish anxiety  at  the  clear  spot  made  by  the  School  of  Arts 
amid  the  other  black  buildings.  At  last,  when  he  came 
down  for  the  fifth  time,  a  comrade  joined  him.  Stephen 
looked  him  anxiously  in  the  eye,  without  daring  to  ask 
him. 

[3"] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"My  compliments,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  cried,  press- 
ing his  hand,  "  there  is  a  regular  crush  around  your 
picture.  You  may  be  proud — such  a  success!" 

"No  bad  jokes,  I  pray  you!"  said  Stephen,  blushing 
all  over.  "Is  it  true?" 

"I  tell  you  people  walk  over  each  other's  toes  to  see 
it.  There  is  but  one  cry:  Yours  is  the  best,  and  you 
will  get  the  prize  most  assuredly!" 

"You  think  so?"  murmured  Stephen,  breathing  at 
last  more  freely. 

"Well,  come  and  see  for  yourself." 

He  drew  him  to  the  building,  and  went  with  him 
into  the  room.  Stephen  hid  in  the  embrasure  of  a  win- 
dow, and  watched  with  intense  delight  how  the  people 
crowded  each  other  to  get  at  his  work.  The  connois- 
seurs would  bend  their  heads  and  examine  long  and 
carefully,  then  they  would  raise  their  heads  again,  and 
their  faces  betrayed  perfect  satisfaction.  A  very  well 
known  art-critic  stood  a  long  time  before  the  picture. 
His  face,  usually  rather  sleepy-looking,  brightened  up; 
he  dropped  a  few  words  of  praise,  which  his  disciples 
treasured  up  with  looks  of  admiration.  Suddenly  an 
attendant  cried:  "Gentlemen!  the  doors  are  closed !" 

It  was  four  o'clock.  The  hall  was  cleared  grad- 
ually; Stephen  was  pushed  out  and  found  himself  in 
Bonaparte  Street.  He  felt  a  need  of  quiet  under  the 
trees  and  a  desire  to  take  violent  exercise  to  recover  his 
equanimity.  The  anxiety  had  been  too  much  for  him. 
One  thing  was  certain ;  his  work  was  good,  and  he  had 
drawn  the  attention  of  the  public.  Now,  whether  he 
got  the  prize  or  not,  they  could  not  deny  that  he  had 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

real  talent.  The  five  years  of  hard  work  and  pain- 
ful privations  which  he  had  voluntarily  undergone 
were  not  lost.  His  name  would  be  famous.  And  look- 
ing triumphantly  into  the  past,  he  saw  the  winter  morn- 
ing on  which  he  left  St.  Clement. 

How  proud  he  was  now,  this  evening,  with  this  first 
certain  evidence  of  success!  He  went  into  an  open-air 
restaurant  at  Bellevue. 

During  the  next  two  days  the  papers  were  full  of 
accounts  of  the  exhibition.  The  majority  of  critics 
praised  No.  7,  and  assigned  the  first  rank  to  it.  At  last 
the  day  of  judgment  came.  Stephen  had  not  slept, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  July  heat,  was  shivering  all  over. 
"Surely,"  he  told  himself,  "they  will  give  me  the  prize; 
they  can  not  keep  it  from  me.  And  yet,  if  they  did!" 

Toward  two  o'clock  one  of  the  secretaries  came 
down  to  the  courtyard  and  was  instantly  surrounded. 

"Well?"  asked  a  friend  of  his  among  the  students. 

"Well,  it  goes  on  slowly;  they  vote  and  vote  and 
Maupin  is  losing  every  time!" 

At  last,  at  three  o'clock,  some  noise  was  heard  up- 
stairs, the  session  was  over,  and  the  academicians  still 
continued  their  conversation  as  they  descended  the 
steps.  One  of  them  came  down  smoking  his  cigar  and 
looking  half  asleep.  A  student  approached  him  and 
asked  what  the  result  was.  "  They  have  given  the  great 
prize  to  Lagune,"  he  said.  Stephen,  leaning  against 
the  wall  of  the  wharf,  facing  the  opening  of  the  street, 
suddenly  saw  the  students  scatter  from  the  building  and 
run  in  all  directions.  He  knew  then  that  the  decision 
had  been  made,  and  rapidly  crossed  the  street.  He 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

had  not  taken  ten  steps  when  Lagune's  name  met  him 
full  in  the  face.  He  stopped,  turned  pale  and  supported 
himself  against  the  show  window  of  a  dealer  in  pictures. 

"Yes,  old  man!"  said  a  friend  coming  upon  him. 
"These  idiots  have  given  you  only  the  second  prize. 
And  do  you  know  what  decided  them? — 'Gentlemen/ 
said  one  of  the  academicians,  'Lagune  is  poor,  and  he 
is  too  old  to  compete  again  next  year.  Maupin  is 
young,  his  father  is  enormously  rich,  he  has  time  and 
the  means;  he  can  wait.'  And  thus  these  donkeys  have 
made  you  lose  the  prize!" 

He  turned  his  back  upon  his  friends  and  went  back 
again  toward  the  river.  He  had  reached  the  corner, 
when  he  heard  his  name  called  by  somebody,  who  had 
hastened  his  steps  to  overtake  him. 

"Is  not  this  Monsieur  Stephen  Maupin  whom  I  have 
the  honor  of  meeting?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Stephen,  impatiently. 

"Sir,"  began  the  unknown,  "I  have  seen  your  can- 
vas. I  compliment  you.  It  is  a  very  fine  piece  of  paint- 
ing, but  the  Academy  has  done  right  in  not  sending  you 
to  Italy;  Rome  would  have  ruined  you.  Italy  is  not 
for  you.  If  I  tell  you  this  so  bluntly,  it  is  because  I  un- 
derstand it.  I  am  Schwartz!" 

Stephen  opened  his  eyes  and  ears.  Schwartz  was  a 
Jew,  well  known  at  great  auction  sales  and  in  the  art 
world,  half  amateur,  half  dealer,  whose  specialty  it  was 
to  buy  up  the  works  of  artists  as  yet  unknown  but  giv- 
ing great  hopes. 

"If  I  take  the  liberty  of  stopping  you,"  he  continued, 
while  Stephen,  not  yet  himself  again,  stammered  some- 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

thing,  "  it  is  because  I  wish  to  buy  your  painting  for  two 
thousand  francs,  and  at  the  same  time  to  order  a  sec- 
ond. You  understand  peasants;  I  see  that.  We  must 
work  that  vein.  Go  into  the  provinces,  pick  out  some 
landscape  that  suits  you,  paint  me  a  picture  of  the  open 
air,  very  personal.  I'll  pay  you  five  thousand  francs 
for  it.  Do  not  hurry — I  give  you  till  next  year." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Stephen,  who  at  last  began  to 
breathe  more  freely,  "such  a  painting  as  you  ask  of 
me  will  take  a  great  deal  of  time,  and  time  is  money 
for  me,  for  I  have  nothing  but  my  brush,  whatever  the 
Institute  may  say  of  it." 

"  On  that  account  I  mean  to  pay  you  half  the  amount 
in  advance.  You  see  that  I  have  great  confidence  in 
you.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

Stephen  did  not  take  long  to  reflect.  Paris  was 
hateful  to  him  just  now,  and  this  journey  in  search  of 
a  landscape  had  its  charms  for  him. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  I  accept." 

"Very  well.  Here  is  my  card;  come  and  see  me  to- 
morrow at  ten  o'clock;  I'll  show  you  my  little  gallery, 
and  I'll  pay  JOU  the  money.  Good-evening!" 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  PEASANT  MAID 

T  was  the  evening  of  the  Assembly  at 
Lesin.  Stephen  Maupin,  tired  and 
hungry,  after  three  hours  spent  in 
the  open  air,  watching  the  dancers 
and  sketching  peasants'  heads,  had 
come  back  to  the  tavern.  He  was 
exhausted,  and  wanted  nothing  but  a 
chair  and  a  place  at  the  table  where 
he  might  eat  his  dinner.  But  here  began  the  difficulty. 
The  inn  was  full. 

"Could  you  not  give  me  my  dinner  in  some  corner 
of  the  house?"  inquired  Stephen  of  the  hostess. 

"You  see,  Monsieur,  everything  is  full.  I  have  a 
room  upstairs,  it  is  true,  but  Monsieur  Brossard,  the 
tax-collector,  has  engaged  it  for  his  supper. " 

"That  gentleman  might  be  so  very  kind  as  to  share 
it  with  me?" 

"I'll  ask  him!"  said  the  landlady. 
While  she  went  upstairs,  Stephen  had  seated  himself 
on  the  edge  of  the  well.    After  his  interview  with  Mon- 
sieur Schwartz,  he  had  left  Paris  with  the  intention  of 
returning  to  his  home,  and  there  to  look  for  a  village  in 
which  he  might  make  the  studies  necessary  for  the 
execution  of  the  picture  he  had  promised  to  paint. 
But  so  far,  chance  had  been  unkind  to  him,  and 
[316] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

aside  from  a  few  rough  sketches  of  characteristic  peas- 
ants' heads,  he  had  gained  nothing  by  his  tramp  down 
here,  save  the  somewhat  doubtful  privilege  of  supping 
in  company  with  the  collector  of  taxes.  For  the  land- 
lady had  come  back  promptly  with  the  message  that 
M.  Brossard  would  be  delighted,  and  begged  him  to 
come  up  at  once,  as  the  soup  was  on  the  table. 

Stephen,  ran  up  the  staircase,  and  entered  a  rather 
tidy-looking,  square  chamber.  On  the  table  a  tureen 
was  smoking,  and  M.  Brossard  himself  was  putting 
down  an  additional  cover  opposite  his  own. 

"Upon  my  word  you  are  welcome,"  he  said  in  a 
jovial  tone.  "I  detest  solitude,  and  I  am  delighted  to 
have  you  keep  me  company.  Madame  Jacob,  send  us 
up  two  bottles  of  your  best  wine,  and  tell  your  cook  not 
to  burn  our  chicken." 

At  dessert  M.  Brossard,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
table  and  showing  clearly  the  exhilarating  effect  of  the 
old  wine,  asked  Stephen  in  which  village  he  thought  of 
settling  down  for  a  time,  to  pursue  his  studies. 

"I  really  have  no  idea,"  was  the  reply,  "I  shall  float 
hither  and  thither,  looking  for  heads  that  may  furnish 
interesting  typical  characters,  and  for  models  who  will 
consent  to  sit  for  me." 

"If  that  is  all,"  cried  the  collector,  "you  must  come 
with  me  to  Pressy;  life  is  easy  there  and  pleasant. 
I  know  a  lodging  that  will  suit  you  exactly,  and,  upon 
my  word,  if  you  are  in  want  of  models,  I'll  make  you 
acquainted  with  all  the  pretty  girls." 

"I  accept!"  said  Stephen,  in  whose  memory  the 
name  of  Pressy  awakened  pleasant  reminiscences. 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"Done!  I'll  carry  you  off  to-night  and  hope  you 
will  stay  with  me  till  the  lodging  I  spoke  of  is  ready. 
Have  you  any  traps  here?" 

"No;  I  left  my  luggage  at  the  White  House!" 

"Well,  you  can  send  for  them  to-morrow;  we  can 
walk  there  together,  it  is  only  two  miles,  and  smoke  our 
pipes.  Let  us  say  good-by  to  Madame  Jacob  and  be 
gone,  for  the  weather  looks  threatening,  and  it  would 
be  annoying  to  be  caught  in  the  rain." 

They  had  not  gone  half  way  across  when  rain  began 
to  fall,  and  Brossard  said: 

"It  will  not  amount  to  much.  Are  you  a  good 
walker?" 

"Yes!" 

"Well,  in  that  case  we'll  put  on  our  seven-league 
boots,  and  perhaps  we  can  escape  the  worst." 

They  lost  some  more  time  by  the  directions  which 
Stephen  had  to  give  at  the  White  House  about  his  traps, 
and  when  they  left  the  wood,  the  wind  rose,  and  soon 
the  rain  came,  whipping  their  faces  with  considerable 
severity. 

"Laperlipopette!"  cried  the  collector,  turning  up  his 
collar.  "It  is  raining  pitchforks  now,  and  at  the  same 
time  it  is  as  black  as  night."  He  stopped,  uncertain 
where  he  was;  he  tried  to  pierce  the  darkness,  and 
of  a  sudden  he  uttered  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  Raising 
his  right  arm,  he  pointed  at  a  faint  little  star  that 
was  shining  afar  off  through  the  rainy  night,  and 
said: 

"If  I  do  not  see  double,  that  light  must  be  at  the 
Joubards!" 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

He  had  hardly  pronounced  that  name  than  Stephen 
exclaimed  in  his  turn:  "The  Joubards!" 

"Yes,  it  is  a  farm  where  we  can  wait  for  the  rain  to 
cease,  and  where  they  will  give  us  a  good  fire  to  dry 
our  clothes." 

"The  Joubards,"  said  Stephen,  "was  that  it?" 

"Yes.  The  name  is  quite  common  here.  I  myself 
know  at  least  three  or  four  farms  which  all  bear  the 
same  name  of  owners.  These  are  good  people,  and 
will  treat  us  well." 

Stephen  followed  him,  feeling  his  heart  beat  in  a  long- 
forgotten  way.  The  collector  went  up  the  steps  and 
opened  the  door,  which  was  closed  only  with  a  latch. 

The  room  was  a  vast  kitchen  with  an  enormous  fire- 
place; before  it  a  small  lamp  was  hanging,  the  light  of 
which  hardly  went  beyond  the  middle  of  the  apart- 
ment. Seated  on  a  low  chair,  her  back  turned  to  the 
door,  a  young  peasant  woman  was  shelling  beans,  the 
pods  and  leaves  of  which  lay  in  a  heap  of  verdure  by 
her  side. 

She  turned  her  head  slowly  round,  and  suddenly  see- 
ing strangers  in  the  room,  she  started  up,  frightened. 

"Do  not  fear,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Brossard,  shak- 
ing his  soft  hat,  "it  is  I  who  come  to  seek  shelter  at 
your  house  on  account  of  this  abominable  rain  that 
has  overtaken  us  on  the  road." 

"Ah!  the  collector!"  she  said  in  a  clear,  ringing 
voice,  which  made  Stephen  tremble  to  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  "you  must  pardon  me,  Monsieur,  I  thought 
for  a  moment  it  was  father  and  mother  who  were 
returning." 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"Are  they  both  out  in  this  weather  that  is  fit  for 
ducks  only?" 

"They  went  to  the  Assembly  at  Lesin,  in  the  hope 
of  meeting  there  a  new  shepherd.  Ours  has  drawn  the 
lot,  you  know,  and  is  a  conscript.  But  they  will  not  be 
long.  Take  a  seat.  I  will  light  some  wood  and  dry 
your  clothes." 

She  put  two  chairs  before  the  fire,  and  threw  a  hand- 
ful of  dry  branches  on  it,  which  soon  made  a  pleasant 
blaze.  Now  the  newcomers  could  see  the  young 
person,  brilliantly  illumined  from  head  to  foot.  They 
saw  the  large  folds  of  her  black  gown  on  the  hips,  the 
brown  cotton  of  the  apron  and  bib,  pinned  on  the 
shoulders  and  tight  at  the  waist,  while  a  white  fichu 
was  crossed  over  her  bosom.  The  light  delicately 
gilded  her  sunburned  cheeks,  reddening  her  full  lips 
and  making  her  black  eyes  sparkle.  Stephen  was  over- 
come with  emotion;  he  recognized  Therese,  the  peasant 
girl  Therese,  such  as  he  had  seen  her  on  the  first 
evening — the  eventful  evening  of  Celestin's  wedding. 

The  sudden  shock,  together  with  the  sorrowful  im- 
pression which  the  sight  of  Therese,  reduced  to  this 
more  than  modest  condition,  made  on  him,  kept  him 
nailed  to  the  spot  where  he  stood. 

The  collector  was  already  sitting  astride  on  his  chair 
and  drying  his  jacket. 

"Are  you  not  also  wet,  Monsieur,  and  in  need  of  dry- 
ing your  clothes?"  Therese  asked  the  young  painter, 
who  did  not  stir.  "  Come,  make  yourself  comfortable ! " 

He  obeyed,  came  forth  out  of  the  darkness,  and  en- 
tered, greatly  embarrassed,  into  the  circle  of  light. 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

Presently  he  turned  to  the  young  girl,  and  asked: 

"Am  I  really  so  changed,  Mademoiselle  Therese, 
that  you  no  longer  know  who  I  am?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur  Maupin,"  she  re- 
plied, after  some  hesitation,  as  if  to  make  sure  that  her 
voice  would  be  firm;  "I  recognized  you  very  well." 

"And  yet  you  treated  me  like  a  stranger." 

"Because  I  did  not  know  whether  you  would  like  to 
renew  our  acquaintance.  You  yourself,  it  seemed  to 
me,  were  not  very  eager  to  let  your  friend  here  know 
that  we  had  known  each  other  long  ago." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  he  said,  turning  his  chair  half- 
way round.  "It  was  the  first  shock  only  which  kept 
me  from  speaking,  and  then  I  was  afraid " 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"I  feared  your  anger  against  me  might  still  con- 
tinue  --•"<;. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Oh!"  she  sighed,  "since  then 
so  many  things  have  happened.  Besides,  I  know  now 
that  you  could  not  help  what  was  done!" 

There  was  a  pause.  She  drew  the  basket  with  the 
beans  to  her  and  quietly  continued  her  work,  filling  her 
apron  rapidly. 

"What  has  become  of  Monsieur  Desroches?" 
Stephen  asked,  timidly. 

"He  was  arrested,  banished  to  Africa,  and  there 
died!" 

"Pardon  me,  Therese!" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  to  pardon  you?"  she  de- 
manded, looking  at  him  with  her  frank  and  limpid 
eyes. 

21  [321] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

"For  all  the  harm  my  family  has  done  you!" 

"He  whom  your  father  has  harmed  has  died  far 
off  in  Africa,  and  he  alone  has  the  right  to  forgive.  As 
for  myself,  I  do  not  blame  you — neither  you  nor  any 
one,  for  I  have  never  been  happier  in  my  life  than  I 
am  now!" 

"But  you  were  not  born  for  the  life  you  are  lead- 
ing!" 

"On  the  contrary — I  think  I  was  good  for  nothing 
but  a  peasant  girl!  And  this  time  I  have  become  one 
in  good  earnest.  Look  at  my  hands!  Believe  me,"  she 
continued,  "I  like  this  life  and  would  not  exchange 
it  for  any  other.  But  you — what  has  become  of  you  ? 
Do  you  live  in  our  province?" 

He  told  her  in  a  few  words  what  he  had  done  and 
what  he  proposed  to  do.  "I  think,"  he  said  in  conclu- 
sion, "I  shall  settle  down  for  some  time  at  Pressy— 
will  you  permit  me  to  come  and  see  you  occasionally?" 

She  frowned  for  a  moment. 

"Does  my  purpose  or  my  request  displease  you?" 
he  asked. 

"Neither!  But  in  the  life  that  I  lead,  there  are  not 
many  moments  of  leisure,  and  I  do  not  see  that  we  shall 
have  many  occasions  to  meet  each  other.  However,  if 
you  at  times  pass  by  here  and  will  come  in,  you  will 
always  be  welcome,"  she  added,  offering  him  her 
hand,  "provided " 

"Provided  what?"  he  replied.  He  had  taken  her 
hand  and  was  pressing  it  cordially. 

"Provided  the  thing  pleases  my  old  nurse  and  her 
husband .  Here  they  come ! ' ' 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

In  truth  the  dogs  had  commenced  barking  once 
more,  and  a  little  vehicle  stopped  at  the  door.  The- 
rese  opened  the  door  and  hastened  to  meet  her  friends. 
All  this  noise  had  roused  the  collector,  who  had  fallen 
asleep,  but  who  now  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"Eh?"  he  asked.  "You  were  saying— Why!  The 
fire  is  out  and  here  are  the  people  of  the  farm  coming 
home!  I  verily  believe — the  devil  take  it — I  have  had 
a  doze!  Upon  my  word,  Monsieur  Maupin,  if  it  does 
not  rain  any  more  I  should  like  to  go  and  finish  it  in 
my  bed!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

PROGRESS 

Pressy,  Stephen  arose  every  morning 
with  the  sun.  During  the  two  first 
weeks  of  his  stay  there,  he  went  only 
once  as  far  as  the  farm  of  Therese, 
but  his  ill  luck  pursued  him;  the 
people  were  all  out  at  work  and  the 
house  was  empty. 

One  evening  the  collector  himself 
came  early  to  Stephen's  studio. 

"My  dear  artist,"  he  said,  after  having  carefully 
closed  the  door,  "I  come  to  ask  you  a  service,  and  only 
fear  you  will  refuse  me." 

"Nevertheless,  ask,"  replied  Stephen.  "I'll  do  it 
most  cheerfully." 

"Permit  me  to  present  you  to  the  notary  and  his 
wife!" 

Stephen  cried  out  against  it. 

Stephen  protested,  but  the  collector  was  persevering, 
and  finally  the  painter,  moved  partly  by  curiosity  and 
partly  tired  of  saying  No!  had  to  give  way.  Thus  he 
was  introduced  in  the  notary's  household. 

The  two  sisters  received  the  painter  as  a  distraction 
that  heaven  sent  them  for  their  benefit.  Madame 
Athenai's  was  well  content  to  have  M.  Brossard  now 

[324] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

entirely  to  herself,  while  Mademoiselle  Marcelle  had 
.made  up  her  mind  from  the  beginning  that  she  would 
make  poor  Stephen  Maupin  fall  in  love  with  her.  Un- 
fortunately the  young  painter  soon  tired  of  hearing 
incessantly  the  same  senseless  babbling,  the  same 
impertinent  questions,  and  heartily  repented  ever  hav- 
ing yielded  to  M.  Brossard's  request.  Then  he  would 
dream  of  Therese,  of  the  peasant  girl  who  worked  in 
the  fields  with  the  other  girls;  he  compared  her  maid- 
enly dignity,  her  exquisite  grace,  her  almost  harsh 
reserve,  with  the  impure  mind  of  Marcelle  and  her 
blank  and  frivolous  existence. 


[  325  ] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


DELICATE  GROUND 

AVE  you  ever  seen  a  harvest  feast, 
Monsieur  Maupin?" 

"No,  Mademoiselle  Marcelle;  in 
my  little  town  people  have  become 
too  city-like  and  have  forgotten  such 
good  old  customs." 

"I  congratulate  you.  Here  the 
peasants  lose  no  opportunity  to  amuse 
themselves  and  always  at  the  expense  of  the  landowner. 
The  end  of  every  kind  of  harvest  furnishes  an  occasion 
for  an  entertainment.  There  is  the  harvest  feast  of  the 
hay  crop,  of  the  wheat  crop,  of  the  vintage — what  do 
I  know?" 

"Their  life  is  hard;   it  is  but  natural  that  after  so 
much  hard  work  they  should  look  for  a  little  fun." 
"You  seem  to  like  peasants?" 
"Yes,  I  do— much!" 

"You  will  soon  get  tired  of  them,  when  you  see  them 
near  by,"  said  Marcelle,  contemptuously,  whirling  her 
sunshade  over  her  fair  head.  "You  are  too  warm  in 
the  sun,"  she  continued;  "give  me  your  arm,  and  you 
will  at  least  have  the  benefit  of  my  parasol!" 

Stephen  obeyed.  They  followed  a  foot-path  barely 
wide  enough  to  let  .two  persons  pass.  Before  them 

[326] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

walked  the  collector  with  the  notary's  wife,  and  far 
beyond  them  was  visible  the  straw  hat  of  the  notary, 
who  was  showing  them  the  way  to  the  meadow,  where 
the  celebration  of  the  bringing  in  of  the  last  sheaf  was 
to  be  held. 

As  the  procession  passed  the  group  of  friends,  Ste- 
phen could  not  restrain  a  gesture  of  surprise,  when  he 
noticed  Therese  among  the  binders. 

Marcelle  looked  sarcastically  at  the  young  man. 

"Why,"  she  asked,  "do  you  know  that  girl?" 

"Yes!  "replied  Stephen. 

"You  need  not  blush,"  she  cried,  laughing  aloud  and 
facing  Stephen,  who  really  had  blushed  very  red,  "she 
is  no  doubt  one  of  your  models!  You  know  there  is 
quite  a  romantic  story  connected  with  that  girl;  she  is 
an  outcast;  her  father  died  in  exile,  and  the  farmer  who 
rents  our  other  place  has  taken  her  in." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Stephen,  curtly,  "she  is  a  very 
brave  girl  and  bears  her  misfortunes  nobly!" 

"Pshaw!"  cried  his  companion,  "she  is  like  all  the 
rest,  and  her  misfortunes  will  not  keep  her  from  danc- 
ing the  whole  evening  with  her  lover!" 

Stephen  was  put  out.    This  girl  spoiled  his  pleasure. 

Mademoiselle  Marcelle  slipped  her  arm  into  the 
painter's  arm  and  asked:  "Well,  where  shall  we  go? 
Do  you  wish  to  invite  one  of  these  reapers  for  the  first 
waltz?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  then!  Besides,  I  ought  to  warn  you;  you 
would  lose  your  reward.  Each  has  her  lover  with  whom 
she  dances  all  night  long,  and  who  escorts  her  home. 

[327] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

Come,  let  us  go  down  to  the  river  and  look  out  a  cool 
place  where  we  can  wait  till  the  dancing  begins." 

Stephen  tried  to  protest,  but  she  insisted,  adding: 

"Come,  if  you  will  obey  I  will  give  you  some- 
thing!" 

They  went,  and  Therese,  still  immovable  near  the 
musician,  her  eyes  fixed,  her  eyebrows  contracted,  fol- 
lowed, with  a  strange  expression  in  her  eyes,  half  angry 
and  half  contemptuous,  the  management  of  Mademoi- 
selle Marcelle. 

The  two  promenaders,  after  having  wandered  a 
while  under  the  chestnut- trees,  hung  with  hops,  reached 
a  place  where  five  or  six  linden-trees  formed  a  group, 
and  here  Marcelle,  closing  her  sunshade,  sank  down 
into  the  tall  grass. 

"I  don't  believe  you  knew  of  this  place,  Monsieur 
Maupin!"  she  said.  "Come  and  sit  down.  Is  not  this 
charming?" 

"There,"  she  continued,  making  herself  comfortable 
in  her  nest,  as  she  called  the  place,  "  now  tell  me  a  story, 
Monsieur  Maupin.  You  are  romantic — hence,  the 
place  ought  to  inspire  you 

"Romantic?  You  are  mistaken,  Mademoiselle 
Marcelle!"  he  replied,  beginning  to  feel  very  embar- 
rassed. 

"Why,  yes!  You  live  in  the  clouds — you  are  in  pur- 
suit of  the  ideal!  You  are  not  like  Monsieur  Brossard 
— flesh  and  blood  seem  to  have  no  charms  for  you— 
you  are  good  and  serious,  like  a  book  that  mamma 
allows  her  child  to  read  with  safety." 

Stephen  was  shocked  and  rose. 
[328] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"What  is  the  matter?"  cried  Marcelle,  surprised. 

She  held  him  by  the  arm  and  forced  him  to  sit  down 
again. 

"Do  you  hear  the  hurdy-gurdy?"  she  asked,  in  her 
ironical  voice.  "At  this  moment  your  little  peasant 
girl  perhaps  opens  the  ball  with  her  lover!" 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  he  asked,  frowning  and 
stammering. 

"  I  am  interested  in  the  girl.  Her  story  is  like  a  fairy- 
tale. What  did  you  call  her  ?  " 

"I  pray  you,"  he  cried,  imperatively,  "let  us  not  talk 
of  Mademoiselle  Desroches!" 

"Ah!  You  know  her 'family  name,  too!  You  know 
perhaps  a  great  deal  more,  eh?"  Thereupon  she  rose, 
shook  out  her  skirt,  put  on  her  hat,  and  pushed  aside 
the  branches  that  obstructed  her  passage. 

She  took  a  few  steps,  and  then,  turning  round  again, 
she  said: 

"If  I  meet  Mademoiselle  Desroches,  I'll  send  her  to 
you!" 

He  walked  slowly  down  the  dark  highroad,  his  head 
hanging  low.  Suddenly  his  meditations  were  broken 
by  the  sound  of  a  light,  quick  step  behind  him,  and  as 
he  turned  instinctively  he  saw  Therese.  When  she 
recognized  Stephen,  she  looked  at  first  rather  shocked; 
while  he,  at  the  sight  of  Therese,  felt  joy  coming  back 
to  his  heart  and  his  face  brightened  up.  "Good- 
evening,  Mademoiselle  Therese!"  he  said,  and  offered 
her  his  hand. 

"Good-evening,  Monsieur  Maupin!"  she  said,  with- 
out stopping. 

[329] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

"You  are  coming  back  alone?"  he  asked,  walking 
by  her  side. 

"I  left  father  at  the  feast  and  am  going  home  to 
supper." 

"Let  me  accompany  you  a  little,"  he  said,  "I  am 
so  happy  to  have  met  you !  I  blamed  myself  for  not 
speaking  to  you  in  the  meadow  there,  and  you  must  have 
thought  it  strange  in  me!" 

"I  thought  you  probably  had  nothing  special  to  say 
to  me,  or  rather — I  thought  you  did  not  wish  to  dis- 
please the  person  with  whom  you  were." 

Stephen  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "That  person  is 
perfectly  indifferent  to  me.  T  care  little  whether  I 
please  or  displease  her." 

"That  is  not  what  people  say!" 

"What  do  people  say?" 

"That  you  are  going  to  marry  her!" 

"People  are  mistaken!"  he  exaclimed,  angrily.  "I 
never  dreamed  of  such  nonsense!  There  was  a  time 
when  I  dreamed  of  a  home  of  my  own,  a  cottage,  and 
in  it  a  beloved  wife,  perhaps  a  child — my  father  has 
upset  all  that.  What  have  I  to  offer  a  wife  ?  A  doubt- 
ful future,  a  discredited  name,  execrated  by  all  around 
him  whose  daughter  she  would  have  to  become " 

"You  never  see  your  father?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  not  seen  him  since  my  mother's  death." 

"Look!"  said  Therese,  describing  a  circle  with  her 
arm;  "up  there  the  Courtils  forest,  down  there  the 
valley  of  stables;  here  for  five  long  years  my  life  has 
been  spent,  and  I  have  but  one  wish:  that  it  may  con- 
tinue here — till  the  end!" 

[330] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

Stephen  remained  silent.  With  the  dear  insight  of 
woman,  Therese,  who  was  watching  him  by  the  star- 
light, divined  his  thoughts,  which  darkened  his  face. 

"Monsieur  Stephen,"  she  said,  "will  you  come  in 
and  share  our  supper?" 

Stephen's  eyes  brightened.  "Ah!"  he  said,  "I  would 
accept  with  great  pleasure,  if  I  were  not  afraid  to  be 
troublesome." 

"Oh,  no!  You  will  have  a  poor  supper,  that  is  all! 
Come  in!" 

By  the  light  of  the  lamp,  the  old  lady  was  spinning 
industriously. 

"Mamma!"  Therese  said  to  the  good  old  woman, 
who  opened  her  eyes  wide,  "this  is  Monsieur  Stephen 
Maupin,  of  whom,  you  know,  I  have  often  spoken.  He 
has  brought  me  home,  and  will  take  supper  with  us!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   TRIAL 

fONSIEUR  STEPHEN,  your  break- 
fast is  ready!" 

As  soon  as  TheYese's  early  sum- 
mons rose  from  the  courtyard  and 
reached  the  upstairs  room  through 
the  open  window,  which  the  broad 
leaves  of  a  tall  fig-tree  nearly  con- 
cealed, Stephen  Maupin  went  down 
to  the  kitchen,  where  a  bright  fire  was  blazing  and 
dancing. 

Since  the  day  of  the  Harvest  Feast  he  had  become 
a  frequent  guest  at  the  farm.  He  saw  that  Th6rese  was 
evidently  the  very  soul  of  the  place,  she  had  an  eye 
for  everything,  and  nothing  was  done  in  which  she  did 
not  take  a  part.  The  old  farmer  and  his  wife,  who  had 
lost  their  children  when  quite  young,  had  transferred 
all  their  affection  to  her.  One  evening,  when  the 
men  were  reaping  the  aftermath,  Stephen,  who  had 
spent  a  whole  week  at  the  farm,  had  gone  down  to  the 
meadow  to  say  good-by  to  the  young  girl  before  return- 
ing to  his  lodgings  in  the  village.  Th6rese  was  binding 
a  last  handful  of  hay. 

"How  I  admire  you!"  cried  Stephen,  "always  active, 
always  the  first  at  the  work,  and  the  last  at  the  end." 
"What  can  I  do?    Father  is  getting  old  and  mother 
[332] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

is  quite  busy  enough.  Besides,  I  can  not  bear  being 
inactive:  motion,  work,  exercise  in  the  open  air — all 
that  I  must  have,  or  I  perish. 

"You  are  going  away  to- night ?"  she  asked,  sud- 
denly. 

"Yes,  I  must  go  down  and  see  if  anything  has  hap- 
pened, but  I  shall  be  back  very  soon — in  fact  as  soon 
as  I  possibly  can — provided  always  you  are  not  tired  of 
me  here  at  the  farm." 

"What  an  idea!  Father  and  mother  both  love  you, 
and  everybody  at  the  farm  sings  your  praise." 

"And  you,  Therese?" 

"I,"  she  answered,  laughing  heartily.  "Of  course 
I  chime  in  with  the  chorus!" 

He  also  had  risen  and  secured  her  hand.  "Ther&se," 
he  began,  "I — "  Then  he  paused,  raised  her  hand  to 
his  lips  and  said :  "  To-morrow ! ' ' 

The  next  day  in  the  afternoon,  he  was  leisurely  busy 
in  his  studio,  trying  to  put  some  little  order  among  the 
studies  that  were  mostly  leaning  against  the  wall,  when 
somebody  knocked  cautiously,  and  a  moment  later  M. 
Brossard  appeared. 

"At  last,"  cried  the  newcomer  in  a  somewhat  arro- 
gant tone,  "at  last  one  can  find  you  at  home,  Monsieur. 
I  have  knocked  my  nose  to  pieces  against  your  door 
this  week,  but  the  bird  had  flown!  What  in  the  world 
has  become  of  you?" 

"I  have  spent  a  week  or  so  at  the  farm,  you  know, 
and  I  have  been  hard  at  work." 

"From  Nature?"  asked  the  man  with  a  still  more 
unpleasant  tone. 

[  333  ] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"Yes,"  replied  Stephen.  "Why  do  you  laugh? 
I  have  made  a  number  of  studies  of  open-air  views — 
and,  what  is  more,  I  am  not  dissatisfied  with  them!" 

"I  dare  say — with  such  a  model!" 

"Eh!    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  nothing!  I  understand.  You  want 
to  play  the  discreet  lover  with  me,  but  you  ought  to 
know  that  I  am  not  a  chicken!"  Then  he  came  up  to 
Stephen,  seized  his  hand  and  shaking  it  with  comic 
seriousness,  he  added :  "  My  compliments,  you  scamp ! " 
he  whispered  into  his  ears.  "She  is  pretty — delight- 
ful, that  little  girl  at  the  farm!" 

"Stop  there,  Monsieur  Brossard!  Mademoiselle 
Desroches  is  a  lady  whom  I  highly  respect  and  you  will 
be  pleased  to  say  that  to  all  who  slander  her!" 

"I  will  do  it,  if  you  wish  it,"  said  the  collector,  grad- 
ually losing  his  self-command.  "I  will  proclaim  it  in 
the  market-places,"  he  added,  imperceptibly  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  "but  you  know,  they  will  not  believe 
it — not  a  word  of  it — well  ?  Now  you  frown  at  me  and 
look  as  if  you  meant  to  cut  me  into  small  pieces!  Is  it 
really  forbidden  in  this  house  to  laugh  and  be  merry  ? 
—Yes?  Well,  then,  I  am  gone.  Good-night." 

Stephen  had  remained  immovable  in  the  centre  of 
his  studio,  biting  his  lips  and  crushing  a  piece  of  stiff 
drawing-paper.  He  saw  it  clearly;  the  collector  was 
right  in  what  he  said. 

He  started  for  the  farm,  choosing  the  high  road,  with- 
out thinking  how  he  might  avoid  the  curious  eyes  of 
the  village  people  and  M.  Brossard's  ironical  glances. 
When  he  reached  the  farmhouse  he  was  told  that 

[334] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

Therese  had  gone  to  help  father  to  dig  potatoes  in  a 
field  that  lay  close  to  the  edge  of  the  forest. 

Almost  at  the  very  edge  of  the  woods,  Therese  was 
busy  pouring  a  basketful  of  potatoes  into  a  sack  that 
stood  before  her. 

"What?  Is  that  you?"  she  said.  "They  did  not 
expect  you  to-day!" 

"I  came  back,"  replied  Stephen,  standing  still  to 
recover  his  breath;  "I  came  back  for  the  single  pur- 
pose of  speaking  to  you  about  a  matter  which  I  did  not 
venture  to  mention  yesterday,  and  which  yet  I  must 
bring  to  your  notice.  Have  you  time  to  listen  to 
me?" 

"Speak!"  she  replied  in  a  low  whisper,  while  she 
threw  the  last  potatoes  into  the  sack  and  then  rested 
her  elbows  on  the  full  sack.  "What  is  it?" 

"Therese!"  he  began,  almost  solemnly  and  with  deep 
feeling,  "do  you  remember  that  rainy  day  on  which  we 
took  refuge  at  the  Angels'  farm?" 

She  bowed  her  head.  "Yes,"  she  breathed,  "it 
ended  too  sadly  for  me  ever  to  be  forgotten!" 

"And  do  you  remember  our  conversation  while  we 
were  waiting  until  the  shower  should  be  over?  We 
thought  the  house  a  very  poor  one,  and  yet  I  told  you 
that  I  should  be  perfectly  happy  if  I  could  lead  a  peas- 
ant's life  in  such  a  house — with  you!" 

"I  remember!"  she  whispered  under  her  breath. 

"Therese!  I  have  never  changed  my  mind — and  I, 
who  am  now  quite  as  poor  as  the  man  of  the  Angels' 
farm,  ask  you  if  you  will  marry  me,  and  lead,  with  me, 
a  simple  and  pure  peasant's  life?" 

[335] 


ANDRti  THEURIET 

Therese,  deeply  moved  at  his  words,  looked  him 
in  the  face  and  said:  "You  can  not  think  of  it.  I 
have  changed  my  position  in  life,  while  you  are  the 
same  yet  that  you  were  then.  Our  daily  habits  are  no 
longer  the  same,  nor  our  ways  of  thinking  and  of  talk- 
ing. There  would  certainly  come  a  day  when  you 
would  blush  for  me.  No!  no!  never!" 

"And  why  should  I  ever  blush  for  you?  Because 
you  cultivate  the  soil?  Idleness  alone  is  a  coming 
down.  Therese!  you  are  a  girl  of  high  thoughts  and 
of  a  high  mind!  Those  are  the  qualities  we  demand 
first  of  all  in  a  woman  whom  we  wish  to  choose!" 

"Yes/'  she  murmured,  lowering  her  head  again; 
"but  at  the  very  least  that  woman  ought  to  bring  her 
husband  a  spotless  name  and  one  that  truly  and  cer- 
tainly belongs  to  her.  And  I — painful  as  it  is  to  me — 
I  am  bound  to  tell  you,  that — you  know — I  have  my 
mother — but,  you  know  her  history,  do  you  not?" 

"And  I?  Have  I  not  my  father?"  replied  Stephen, 
with  an  accent  of  profound  grief;  "believe  me,  The- 
rese, you  and  I  are  not  responsible  for  our  parents! 
You  will  never  be  out  of  place  anywhere,  Therese, 
and  my  profession  has  this  advantage,  that  it  permits 
me  to  live  where  I  choose — in  the  country  or  in  town. 
Besides,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  marry  me  on  the  spot. 
Only  promise  you  will  be  my  wife!  In  the  space  of  a 
year  I  shall  be  able  to  see  my  way  clear  before  me,  and 
then  I  shall  come  and  remind  you  of  your  promise. 
Say  yes  and  I  will  ask  no  more.  You  do  not  answer 
me?  Are  you  possibly  no  longer  free?  Do  you  love 
another  man?" 

[336] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"I?"  she  exclaimed,  with  startling  vehemence. 
"Oh!  Great  God!  No!" 

"Well  then,  Therese,  I  love  you,  and  I  beg  you  to 
let  me  love  you!" 

Suddenly  a  high,  sharp  voice  was  heard  from  the  other 
end  of  the  field. 

They  turned  round.  On  the  red  evening  sky  both 
saw  the  long  and  lean  outlines  of  Celestin  Tiffin, 
sharply  defined.  He  came  running  up  to  where  the 
two  were  standing. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  utterly  out  of  breath.  "Ah! 
Monsieur  Stephen!  But  you  are  hard  to  find!  Par- 
don me,  my  child,  I  have  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Maupin 
in  private!"  He  suddenly  recognized  Therese  and 
raised  his  long  arms  to  heaven.  "Mademoiselle  Des- 
roches!  What  accidents  will  happen!  I  surely  did  not 
think  I  should  meet  you  here  this  evening!" 

"Celestin!"  young  Maupin  broke  in  anxiously, 
"what  is  the  matter?  What  brings  you  here?" 

Celestin  wiped  his  brow.  "This  is  the  matter,"  he 
said  at  last,  "you  are  wanted  at  Saint  Clement!  To 
make  matters  more  certain,  your  father  sends  me  in- 
stead of  a  messenger,  and  I  have  been  running  after 
you  ever  since  yesterday — an  hour  ago  I  reached 
Pressy  at  last,  and  thanks  to  a  gentleman  who  was  look- 
ing out  of  a  window  and  who  had  seen  you  pass  by,  I 
was  lucky  enough  to  find  you  here." 

"Is  my  father  ill?"  Stephen  asked. 

"111?    no!    At  least  not  physically!    But  it  is  the 
Maupin  Bank  that  is  ailing!     For  the  last  two  months 
many  people  have  come  without  intermission  and  drawn 
22  [ 337  1 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

their  money  out — for  so  many  depositors  to  come  at 
once,  you  see,  that  looks  badly.  Yesterday  at  last  Mon- 
sieur Maupin  sent  for  me  to  come  to  his  private  office. 
He  was  walking  up  and  down  there  like  a  caged  lion. 
'Go  and  bring  me  my  son!'  he  said,  giving  me  a  paper 
with  your  address  on  it.  '  Go  and  tell  him  the  matter  is 
urgent,  he  must  come  instantly — he  must  lose  no  time!" 

"Yes!"  replied  the  young  man  in  a  changed  voice. 
"In  a  moment!" 

He  went  back  to  Therese,  who  had  not  stirred. 

"Therese!"  he  said,  "I  am  compelled  to  leave  in- 
stantly for  Saint  Clement.  I  am  needed  down  there. 
Who  knows  under  what  circumstances  I  may  re- 
turn? But  I  shall  return!  Let  me  clasp  your  hand! 
That  will  give  me  strength." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  "Courage!"  she  said. 
"We  shall  surely  meet  again!" 

His  hands  behind  his  back,  his  eye  restless,  and  his 
lips  drawn  in  bitterly,  Simon  Maupin  was  walking  up 
and  down  in  his  private  office. 

Suddenly  Stephen  and  Celestin,  covered  with  grayish- 
white  dust,  entered  in  great  haste.  "At  last  you  are 
here!"  exclaimed  the  banker  in  a  hoarse  voice." 

"You  sent  for  me,"  said  Stephen,  "and  here  I  am! 
What  do  you  want  of  me?" 

The  banker  hesitated  a  moment;  then,  getting  the 
better  of  his  pride,  he  seized  Stephen  by  the  arm,  and 
drew  him  into  the  embrasure  of  the  nearest  window. 
He  felt  in  his  heart  the  necessity  of  moving  his  son  in 
some  way  and  by  some  means — was  he  not  his  only 
support  now,  his  only  hope  ? — and  to  ascertain  to  some 

[338] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

extent  what  his  means  were,  and  how  far  he  was  ready 
to  stand  by  him.  "Come  this  way!"  he  whispered. 
"Are  you  not  hungry?  Would  you  have  anything?" 

Stephen  replied  that  Celestin  and  he  had  breakfasted 
on  their  way,  and  M.  Maupin  said : 

"Well,  then,  we  can  go  to  work  at  once!  Celestin, 
you  can  leave  us!" 

Tiffin  bowed  and  left  the  room.  Stephen  had  taken 
a  chair,  and  the  banker  threw  himself  back  in  his  large 
armchair,  trying  to  find  a  beginning,  while  he  was 
mechanically  arranging  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

"Do  you  want  me?"  at  last  asked  the  young  man. 

"Yes!  I  thought  it  best  to  inform  you  verbally  of  the 
— of  my  situation.  Did  Celestin  tell  you " 

"He  told  me  the  Bank  was  not  doing  well,  and  you 
were  sadly  in  want  of  money " 

"Oh!  That  is  only  for  the  moment,"  the  banker 
cried  aloud.  "But,  after  all,  I  am  in  want  of  money 
just  now!  I  have  speculated  unluckily.  You  know 
that  may  happen  to  the  wisest.  The  Emperor  was  all 
the  time  saying:  The  Empire  means  Peace !  I  believed 
in  what  he  said,  I  believed  in  both,  the  Empire  and 
Peace!  I  built  a  number  of  houses — a  whole  quarter 
of  the  city — I  expected  trade  would  flourish  and  the 
shops  would  come  and  crowd  around  the  railway  sta- 
tion! I  thought  I  would  sell  my  houses  for  their  weight 
in  gold!  And  behold,  here  comes  this  accursed  Cri- 
mean War,  breaking  me  legs  and  arms  and  everything! " 

He  brought  down  his  fist  upon  the  table  and  got  up, 
swearing  fiercely.  "When  I  think  that  if  I  had  only 
had  six  months  more  I  should  have  been  at  the  pinna- 

[339] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

cle!  I  was  sure  of  it — as  sure  as  I  touch  this  wall.  I 
was  going  to  be  a  candidate  for  the  assembly,  supported 
by  government.  And  to  think  that  all  this  splendid 
edifice  is  to  tumble  down  like  a  badly  built  scaffolding ! 
However,  I  am  not  at  the  end  yet!  I  can  set  everything 
right  yet,  if  you  will  lend  me  a  hand!" 

Stephen  had  listened  to  his  father  at  first  with  a  cer- 
tain want  of  confidence,  then  with  more  and  more 
emotion. 

"You  were  right  to  count  upon  me,  father,"  he  said, 
in  an  almost  affectionate  voice.  "When  you  speak  of 
the  honor  of  our  name,  I  can  refuse  you  nothing.  The 
firm  Simon  Maupin  must  not  suspend  payment.  I 
have  left  you  the  entire  management  of  my  inheritance 
from  my  mother;  sell  the  lands  and  the  bonds,  I  give 
you  carte  blanche — when  they  see  you  pay  as  usual,  con- 
fidence will  return  and  you  will  be  saved!" 

"  Is  that  all  you  can  find  to  remedy  the  evil  ?  Thank 
you!  If  I  counted  upon  you,  it  was  for  far  more  effi- 
cient assistance!" 

"I  do  not  understand  you!" 

"Really?"  asked  the  father,  fixing  his  sharp  eyes 
upon  Stephen's  face,  "in  that  case  I  will  enlighten  you. 
We  have  here  a  very  influential  family,  the  Leguins; 
they  have  not  a  large  fortune,  but  they  are  nearly  re- 
lated to  the  President  and  to  the  Bishop  of  the  diocese. 
There  are  three  daughters  in  the  house,  and  the  young- 
est, Christine,  is  only  twenty-one;  she  is  pretty,  intelli- 
gent, and  eager  to  marry.  It  seems,  moreover,  that 
artists  are  special  favorites  with  her,  and  that  she  likes 
you.  They  are  quite  ready  to  give  her  to  you,  and  you 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

have  only  to  say  so;  on  the  day  of  your  marriage  our 
bank  is  saved!" 

The  banker  had  continued  to  study  his  son's  face, 
while  making  these  explanations,  but  his  features  had 
remained  impassable  and  impenetrable. 

"But  this  family  of  Leguins  must  know  our  situa- 
tion, and  it  seems  to  me  improbable  that  they  could 
conclude  an  alliance  under  such  very  hazardous  con- 
ditions !" 

"Pshaw!  They  know  that  you  possess  in  your  own 
right  a  fortune  which  my  creditors  can  not  touch.  I 
have  attended  to  that !  Besides,  father  and  mother  are 
devout — I  have  the  clergy  on  my  side,  who  have  a  num- 
ber of  thousands  placed  for  security  in  my  bank,  and 
who  are,  therefore,  interested  to  prevent  a  mishap. 
These  gentlemen,  some  high  in  dignity,  will  use  a  mild 
pressure  upon  the  family " 

"To  deceive  them?"  broke  in  Stephen. 

"Eh?  what  are  you  saying?" 

"To  deceive  them,"  repeated  the  young  man,  coolly. 
This  marriage  is  not  feasible,  and  will  not  take  place!" 

"You  would  rather  see  me  ruined,  dishonored?" 

"There  is  no  disgrace  in  being  poor;  and  your  honor 
will  suffer  less  if  I  refuse  than  if  I  were  to  consent." 

"Yes,  for  I  have  not  told  you  all  yet,"  replied  M. 
Maupin,  lowering  his  voice. 

At  this  moment  there  came  a  knock  at  his  door.  He 
rose  with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  went  and  opened  the 
door,  but  started  back  as  he  perceived  on  the  threshold 
the  person  and  the  ruddy,  smoothly  shaven  face  of 
M.  Landor,  sheriff  of  the  town  of  St.  Clement. 

[34i] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

"Beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur  Maupin,"  sputtered 
the  official,  "beg  your  pardon,  if  I  trouble — I  come 
with  a  summons  of  appearance  in  re  Berloc." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  paper  folded  twice,  and 
handed  it  to  the  banker. 

"Very  well!"  growled  M.  Maupin  in  his  haughtiest 
tone.  "  Thank  you !  You  can  go ! ' ' 

The  officer  disappeared  and  the  door  closed  gently 
behind  him.  Then  Maupin  turned  to  his  son,  throwing 
him  the  paper,  and  repeating,  in  a  breathless,  low  voice : 
"  I  did  not  tell  you  all.  Read  that ! " 

Stephen  thereupon  read  the  mandate  which  sum- 
moned Simon  Maupin,  banker,  to  appear  before  the 
justice  of  the  town  of  St.  Clement,  as  charged  with  habi- 
tual usury,  committed  in  complicity  with  John  Berloc 
— a  crime  punishable  by  the  law  of  September  3, 
1807,  etc. 

The  young  man  put  the  paper  down  and  asked  "Is 
that  true?" 

Maupin  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  Now  you  will  understand  what  must  be  done.  The 
judge  is  the  uncle  of  Monsieur  de  Leguin,  and  if  you 
marry  the  little  one,  it  is  clear  that  he  will  not  sentence 
the  father-in-law  of  his  niece!  But  to  do  that,  you 
must  to-night  ask  for  the  hand  of  Christine  de  Leguin 
through  the  kind  mediation  of  the  priest  of  Saint  Nich- 
olas. All  now  depends  on  you.  You  can  save  me — 
you  can  ruin  me!" 

His  voice  was  trembling  slightly,  and  his  eyes  sought 
to  meet  Stephen's  eyes,  but  the  son  had  turned  his 
head  aside. 

[342] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"You  do  not  answer ?"  asked  the  banker. 

"What  you  ask  is  impossible!" 

"Impossible!"  repeated  the  banker  very  angrily. 
"After  all  you  know?  After  all  I  have  told  you?" 

"Especially  after  what  you  have  told  me!" 

"Then,"  he  cried,  with  exasperation,  "you  prefer  my 
ruin  ?  You  mean  to  ruin  me,  do  you  ?  I  may  be  sent  to 
prison,  and  if  you  do  not  marry  his  niece,  the  judge  will 
not  spare  me.  But  is  it  nothing  to  you  to  see  your  father 
ruined,  dishonored,  sent  to  prison?" 

"Understand  me  rightly,  father!  I  am  willing  to  do 
for  you  all  that  can  be  done  fairly  and  openly.  My  for- 
tune and  my  work  are  yours.  Use  them  as  you  choose ! 
Announce  at  once  the  sale  of  your  property,  of  all  you 
possess,  and  surrender  the  proceeds  to  your  creditors. 
This  will  predispose  the  judges  in  your  favor,  and 
strengthen  your  defense." 

"And  am  I  to  die  on  the  straw?" 

"Is  it  not  better  to  strip  yourself  than  to  be  stripped 
by  the  Courts?" 

"But  I  mean  neither  to  be  stripped  nor  to  be  con- 
demned. Nothing  of  that  kind  will  happen  if  you  con- 
sent to  the  marriage  I  propose!" 

"Never!    Do  not  let  us  speak  of  it  any  more! 

"I  do  not  know  what  kind  of  a  man  you  are,"  replied 
the  banker,  in  a  low,  almost  furious  voice.  "One 
thing  is  sure:  You  are  not  my  son!  A  boy  for  whom 
I  have  done  everything!  For  you  ought  to  know  it,  if 
I  have  been  a  slave,  if  I  have  been  hard  against  myself 
and  hard  against  others,  if  I  have  consented  to  certain 
operations  for  which  I  am  now  reproached,  if  I  have 

[343] 


ANDR&  THEURIET 

done  that  which  threatens  to  land  me  in  prison,  it  was 
for  you!" 

"I  think  so  little  of  forsaking  you  that  I  offer  you  all 
I  possess.  Sell  everything,  leave  Saint  Clement,  come 
with  me.  I  shall  work  so  hard  that  you  shall  never 
know  what  it  is  to  be  poor,  even  after  having  given  up 
all  your  property." 

"Why,  that  is  ridiculous!  You  might  just  as  well 
open  my  veins  at  once  and  bleed  me  to  death!  No!  no! 
I  shall  not  let  go  one  penny,  not  one  foot  of  land!  I 
mean  to  meet  my  enemies  to  their  face !  They  shall  see 
that  old  Simon  Maupin  has  still  his  beak  and  his  talons ! " 

He  raged  like  a  wild  beast  up  and  down  in  the  nar- 
row room.  Stephen  stood  in  silence  by  the  writing- 
table.  The  banker  took  both  of  Stephen's  hands  in  his 
own,  and  spoke  in  an  imploring  voice.  "  Be  a  good  son ! 
I  beseech  you  by  all  that  is  most  holy  to  you !  In  your 
mother's  name!  Shall  I  go  down  on  my  knees?  Come, 
you  have  not  a  heart  of  stone,  I  am  sure !  If  you  were 
to  ask  me  such  a  favor,  I  would  certainly  listen.  I 
would  not  be  inflexible!" 

"I  did  address  you,  one  day,"  replied  Stephen, 
"just  such  a  prayer,  and  you  would  not  listen!  I  re- 
member it !  And  yet,  if  you  were  now  to  ask  me  a  pos- 
sible sacrifice,  I  should  be  ready  to  make  it — but  what 
you  ask  of  me  is  disloyal,  and  in  spite  of  my  desire  to 
save  you,  in  spite  of  what  I  suffer,  I  am  bound  to  say  no ! " 

"Ah!  You  are  harder  than  I  have  ever  been  in  my 
life !  I  am  sorry  now  I  ever  called  you !  Go  back  where 
you  came  from!" 

"No!"  replied  the  son,  firmly.  "No,  I  shall  not 
[344] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

leave  your  side,  however  ill  you  may  think  of  me! 
I  shall  remain  here.  I  shall  stand  by  you  before  the 
judge.  I  shall  be  here  when  sentence  is  given,  and 
help  you  to  face  your  misfortune!" 

"But  I  do  not  want  you!  I  can  defy  the  world  and 
the  devil  alone  and  unaided!"  cried  the  banker  in  his 
exasperation.  "I  shall  show  you  all  what  is  in  me,  and 
point  you  out  to  all  who  want  to  see  a  good-for-nothing 
son,  who  forsakes  his  father  in  the  hour  of  need.  Go— 
or  I  shall " 

M,  Maupin  opened  the  door  and  put  his  son  out 
with  a  final  imprecation;  then  once  more  alone,  he 
threw  himself  into  his  armchair,  uttering  a  cry  of  rage 
which  sounded  like  a  wild  beast's  roar. 

It  was  all  over;  that  last  plank  on  which  he  had 
counted  for  safety,  had  broken  under  him. 

At  the  beginning  of  November,  the  great  cause  of 
Berloc  and  Maupin  had  been  fully  prepared  and  was 
announced  to  be  tried  at  one  of  the  first  meetings  of  the 
police  tribunal.  A  compact  crowd  filled  from  early 
morning  the  square  that  extends  before  the  modest 
court-house  of  St.  Clement.  It  happened  to  be 
market-day,  and  all  the  peasants  who  had  had  cause, 
more  or  less,  to  complain  of  the  firm  of  Simon  Maupin, 
had  come  to  town  to  enjoy  revenge. 

Eleven  o'clock  struck.  The  usher  of  the  court  cere- 
moniously opened  the  double  door.  Suddenly  was  heard 
the  official  summons  of  the  court-usher  who  cried  out : 
"The  Court!. gentlemen,  take  off  your  hats!"  The 
tumult  subsided.  Almost  at  the  same  moment,  another 
usher,  admitted  through  another  door  Simon  Maupin, 

[345] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

accompanied  by  Celestin  and  Stephen,  John  Berloc 
and  their  two  lawyers. 

All  heads  were  raised  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  prin- 
cipal actors  in  the  drama.  The  banker,  in  his  frock- 
coat  buttoned  up  to  the  throat,  with  the  red  ribbon  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor  in  the  buttonhole,  remained 
standing  for  a  moment,  as  arrogant  and  haughty  as 
ever,  and  indifferent  to  the  looks  that  converged  from 
all  sides  on  him.  Stephen,  on  the  contrary,  looked  pale 
and  terribly  worn:  strangers  might  well  have  thought 
that  he  was  the  accused  and  not  his  father.  As  to 
Berloc,  he  had  never  in  his  life  appeared  as  small,  as 
humble,  and  as  supple,  as  now;  he  had  slipped  into  the 
room  like  a  lizard,  and  kept  very  quiet,  casting  every 
now  and  then  a  sneaking,  contrite  look  at  the  judges. 

The  proceedings  were  at  first  very  dull  and  uninter- 
esting. At  last  the  usher  was  heard  with  his  stentorian 
voice  to  announce:  "The  Public  Prosecutor  against 
Berloc  and  Maupin!" 

"Simon  Maupin!  Rise  and  come  forward!"  said 
the  President  of  the  court  in  a  dry  tone  which  was  not 
usual  to  him.  The  banker  came  out  of  his  bench,  hold- 
ing his  head  high,  and  answered  all  questions  in  a 
clear,  precise  voice.  The  Court  came  at  once  to  the 
loan  which  Dr.  Desroches  had  obtained  through  the 
agency  of  Berloc,  and  accused  Maupin  of  having  man- 
aged the  loan  in  such  a  way  as  to  obtain  possession  of 
the  Doctor's  valuable  estate  for  a  ridiculously  small 
sum  of  money. 

"Where  is  the  evidence?"  Maupin  asked,  boldly. 

This  reply  created  in  the  audience  so  strong  a  feeling 
[346] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

of  indignation  that  the  ushers  had  to  command  silence 
—otherwise  the  President  would  order  the  room  to  be 
cleared.  Simon  Maupin  sat  down  and  Berloc's  exami- 
nation began. 

He  was  as  humble  as  his  patron  the  banker  had  been 
haughty  and  insolent.  Alleging  his  extreme  poverty 
and  his  great  ignorance,  he  appealed  in  a  piteous  man- 
ner to  the  Court.  He  was  only  a  kind  of  very  humble 
go-between,  often  totally  ignorant  of  what  was  going  on 
between  his  principal,  M.  Maupin,  and  other  parties. 
If  he  had  ever  imagined  in  his  wildest  dreams  that  such 
abominations  were  committed  by  his  aid  and  assist- 
ance, he  would  have  cut  off  his  right  hand  rather  than 
to  sign  the  smallest  little  bit  of  paper!  But  everything 
was  settled  at  the  bank,  and  when  they  sent  for  him, 
all  that  he  had  to  do  was  to  say,  "Amen!" 

"Do  you  hear?"  asked  the  President,  turning  to 
Maupin.  "What  do  you  say  to  it?" 

"Nothing!"    the   banker  replied,  coolly. 

Then  the  witnesses  appeared.  Their  story  was  nearly 
the  same  in  all  cases:  notes  given  to  Berloc  first,  then 
discounted  and  renewed  by  Maupin  at  enormous  com- 
missions which  increased  the  originally  trifling  debt  to 
fabulous  proportions;  next  execution  and  public  sale  of 
the  same  piece  of  land  at  enormous  prices. 

At  last  all  preparatory  steps  had  been  taken,  and 
the  Imperial  Procurator  rose  to  deliver  his  charge 
against  Simon  Maupin.  This  young  lawyer,  with  his 
stiff  and  stern  ways,  and  a  clear  but  gentle  tone  of 
voice,  was  comparatively  mild  in  his  attack  upon  the 
accused.  As  he  knew  that  the  banker  was  sustained 

[347] 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

by  the  clergy,  he  thought  it  prudent  to  spare  him  as 
much  as  possible. 

Simon  Maupin  breathed  freely,  and  felt  the  weight 
that  had  oppressed  him  considerably  lessened.  The 
judges  were  taken  by  surprise,  and  the  President  did 
not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

But  the  most  surprised  of  all  was  the  great  lawyer 
whom  Simon  Maupin  had  engaged  to  come  down  and 
defend  him.  Pompous,  loquacious,  and  aggressive,  he 
was  unwise  enough  to  exalt  Maupin  as  the  champion 
of  the  party  of  order  in  St.  Clement.  He  made  of  the 
banker  a  kind  of  providential  hero,  ostentatiously  num- 
bered his  public  services,  his  devotion  to  the  Emperor, 
and  the  grand  enterprises  which  he  had  conceived,  and 
which  could  not  but  redound  to  the  welfare  and  the  honor 
of  the  whole  department.  To  hear  him,  all  the  charges 
brought  against  Maupin  were  manifestations  of  the 
Liberals,  who,  not  daring  to  oppose  the  great  man  at 
the  helm,  were  satisfied  with  attacking,  in  a  cowardly 
manner,  the  man  who  was  in  his  confidence. 

He  finished  at  last  his  unfortunate  speech  and  sat 
down,  exhausted  and  out  of  breath,  wiping  his  forehead 
and  looking  for  gratitude  and  admiration  in  the  faces 
of  Maupin  and  his  son. 

The  faces  of  the  judges  now  looked  sinister  and  al- 
most grotesque  in  the  fading  light,  and  enlarged  the 
strongly  marked  features  of  the  Imperial  Procurator, 
who  rose  to  reply. 

At  the  very  first  words  he  uttered  it  became  clear 
that  the  plea  of  the  Parisian  lawyer  had  irritated  his 
nerves,  and  that  he  would  show  no  mercy.  He  admitted 

[348] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

that  at  a  certain  time  the  banker  had  appeared  as  the 
champion  of  the  constituted  authorities,  but  he  proved 
that  this  great  speculator  had  become  the  friend  of  the 
party  of  order  only  to  gratify  his  private  rancor. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  becoming  excited,  "Justice 
sees  clearly  in  spite  of  the  bandage  before  her  eyes; 
she  discerns  the  mean  tricks  of  the  money  dealer  dis- 
guised as  a  politician!  As  there  are  hypocrites  in  re- 
ligion, so  there  are  hypocritical  lovers  of  the  public 
welfare,  and  Simon  Maupin  is  one  of  them!"  Then  he 
showed  how  the  banker  had  abused  the  prestige  of  au- 
thority, crushing  poor  people  whose  shipwreck  he  had 
premeditated — and  then,  with  all  this  money,  indulging 
in  scandalous  speculations. 

The  voice  of  the  Procurator  had  become  as  sharp  as 
a  razor;  it  fell  like  the  blows  of  a  whip  upon  M.  Mau- 
pin's  reputation. 

Without  paying  any  attention  to  the  torture  suffered 
by  his  victim,  the  Imperial  Prosecutor  continued: 
"And  this  man  has  received  favor  after  favor  from  the 
head  of  the  State!  He  bears  on  his  breast  the  cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor!  But  the  government,  which  is 
the  offspring  of  popular  votes,  is  too  great  a  friend  of 
the  laboring  classes  to  let  itself  be  duped  any  longer  by 
a  cheat  who  has  lived  and  fattened  upon  the  life's 
blood  of  the  humblest  of  peasants.  He  shall  be  de- 
prived of  all  the  honors  he  has  so  unworthily  known  to 
obtain;  he  shall  be  publicly  degraded!  And  we  shall 
see  what  marvellous  ignominy,  what  corruption  and  out- 
rageous scandals  are  hidden  under  that  villainous  insti- 
tution called  the  Maupin  Bank!" 

[349] 


ANDRfe  THEURIET 

The  speaker  sat  down,  and  M.  Maupin  rose  as  if 
moved  by  a  spring,  indicating  that  he  wished  to  speak. 
"Mr.  President,"  he  began,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "I  pro- 
test, gentlemen- 
He  suddenly  fell  back  upon  his  bench  like  an  inert, 
lifeless  mass. 

"A  physician!  Quick!  A  physician!"  cried  Celes- 
tin  Tiffin. 

Fortunately  there  was  a  physician  in  the  house  and 
he  hurried  to  the  passage,  where  Celestin  and  Stephen 
had  laid  Maupin  down,  while  the  former  opened  his 
waistcoat  and  unfastened  his  cravat.  The  doctor 
declared  that  his  patient  must  be  instantly  carried 
home  a  litter  was  hastily  contrived,  and  the  banker  was 
carried  into  his  house. 

Across  silent  back  streets,  through  the  dark  night,  two 
men,  accompanied  by  Stephen  and  Celestin,  carried  him 
to  the  bank.  The  private  office  was  on  a  level  with  the 
vestibule,  and  there  he  was  put  down  by  the  orders  of  the 
physician,  who  was  utterly  bewildered  by  the  amazingly 
rapid  progress  of  the  disease,  and  scrawled  one  pre- 
scription after  the  other.  But,  fast  as  his  pencil  ran 
across  the  paper,  death  was  faster  still.  The  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece  had  not  had  time  to  strike  seven  o'clock 
with  its  cracked  voice,  when  Stephen  uttered  a  sudden 
cry.  M.  Maupin  moved  on  his  mattress;  suddenly  his 
eyes  met  his  son's  eyes,  he  raised  himself  on  his  hands, 
his  eyeballs  assumed  a  strange  fire :  "Fallen!  Fallen!" 
he  repeated.  And  indeed  he  fell  never  to  rise  again. 

"The  stroke  has  fallen  like  a  flash  of  lightning," 
murmured  the  doctor,  impassively.  "It  is  over!" 

[35°] 


CHAPTER  XV 


"THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL" 

T  was  night.  In  his  studio,  lighted  up 
modestly  by  a  fire  of  pine-cones, 
Stephen,  after  his  return  to  Pressy, 
two  days  before,  was  walking  up  and 
down  mechanically  like  a  man  who 
had  lost  his  reckoning.  From  time 
to  time  he  stopped,  pressed  his  brow 
against  the  window-panes,  and  with 
melancholy  eyes  contemplated  the  sleeping  landscape 
in  the  cold  light  of  the  full  November  moon.  The  furi- 
ous wind  blew  apparently  from  all  sides  upon  M. 
Minique's  house ;  it  threatened  to  blow  in  the  windows, 
to  creep  in  under  the  ill-fitting  doors,  and  played  with  the 
creaking  vanes  and  slammed  with  growing  rage  the  ill- 
secured  shutters. 

Stephen  was  watching  this  disturbance  with  great 
avidity.  He  longed  to  have  more  of  it.  He  wished 
those  distant  voices  were  a  great  deal  louder,  that  this 
roaring  of  the  tempest  would  never  cease  for  a  moment, 
so  great  was  his  horror  at  finding  himself  once  more 
alone  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

For  every  moment  of  his  life  is  just  now  filled  with 
hallucinations  of  judges  in  their  black  robes,  of  the 
Imperial  Procurator  crushing  the  banker  under  the 

[350 


ANDRE  THEURIET 

violence  of  his  speech,  of  the  malignant  crowd  that 
filled  the  whole  Court-House.  He  sees  Simon  Maupin 
again  stretched  out  on  his  litter,  and  carried  away 
through  the  dark  streets.  He  sees  him  again,  lying 
dead,  in  his  coffin,  buried  in  haste  and  without  cere- 
mony like  a  criminal  that  had  been  executed.  The 
punishment  was  fearful,  and  the  disaster  even  greater 
than  had  been  anticipated.  At  this  hour  the  great  firm 
of  Simon  Maupin,  banker,  is  in  liquidation,  and  Ce- 
lestin  Tiffin  has  the  matter  in  charge! 

"There  must  be  an  end  of  dreams !"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "I  must  go  and  face  the  questions  of  life,  must 
fight  the  battle,  earn  my  daily  bread  and  fulfil  the  en- 
gagements I  have  made ! ' '  The  painting  which  Schwartz 
has  ordered  was  not  begun  yet,  and  Stephen  was 
ashamed  to  live  on  money  which  had  not  been  earned. 
It  was  high  time  to  pass  from  vague  dreams  to  hard 
work — to  the  execution.  "Come,  I  must  be  bold  and 
have  courage!  I  must  try  to  work  in  earnest!"  And 
at  once  he  lights  his  lamp,  chooses  from  his  supply  a 
large  sheet  of  drawing-paper,  and  remains  in  medita- 
tion before  the  blank  sheet ! 

The  white  page  is  soon  covered  with  zebra-lines;  at 
first  all  is  in  confusion,  after  awhile  it  becomes  more 
precise.  Five  or  six  times  the  young  man  wipes  them 
out  and  begins  once  more.  The  hours  pass,  but  he  re- 
mains bent  over  his  paper,  hearing  nothing,  not  even 
the  wind  that  roars  and  the  vane  that  squeaks.  In  the 
fireplace  the  fire  has  gone  out  and  even  the  lamp  is 
giving  out.  At  last  Stephen  throws  away  his  blunt 
pencil  and  raises  himself,  his  head  on  fire,  his  feet  like 

[352] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

lumps  of  ice.  But  he  has  finished  the  sketch  of  his 
painting — a  village  funeral. 

The  next  morning  he  puts  on  his  painter's  costume, 
buckles  his  gaiters,  throws  his  bag  over  his  shoulder, 
and  accompanied  by  the  boy  who  carries  his  traps, 
he  reaches  the  point  he  has  chosen  for  the  execution  of 
his  work,  in  the  open  air. 

Stephen  has  sought  the  acquaintance  of  the  priest. 
This  good  man,  tempted  by  the  promise  of  a  picture  for 
his  church,  has  handed  over  his  sexton  to  the  young 
painter,  with  his  deputy  and  his  little  choristers,  to 
serve  as  models.  The  short  winter  days  pass  but  too 
quickly;  his  painting  absorbs  him  and  puts  him  in  a 
fever. 

At  the  farm  where  Therese  lives,  on  the  contrary,  the 
days  seem  too  long.  The  work  in  the  fields  is  all  fin- 
ished, and  from  early  morning  Therese  sits  in  her  room, 
close  by  the  window,  and  sews  and  sews,  barely  allow- 
ing herself,  now  and  then,  a  glance  at  the  distant  hills 
and  the  fleeting  clouds. 

She  thinks  of  Stephen.  She  asks  herself  what  sad 
events  keep  him  so  long  at  St.  Clement;  she  begins  to 
wonder  at  his  long  absence.  Since  the  young  man  has 
left  her,  she  has  gone  down  to  church  but  once,  to  be 
present  at  the  High  Mass  said  on  All  Saints'  Day.  She 
reads  in  the  looks  and  smiles  of  the  people  assembled 
at  church,  that  half  curious,  half  sarcastic  expression  of 
which  she  has  once  before  suffered  so  much.  She  never 
doubts  Stephen,  but  still  she  is  troubled. 

One  evening,  at  last,  she  determines  to  write  to  Ce- 
lestin  Tiffin;  she  knows  his  discretion,  his  devotion  to 
23  [353] 


ANDR£  THEURIET 

the  firm  he  serves,  and  she  feels  certain  that  he  at  least, 
with  all  his  discretion,  will  tell  her  the  truth.  This 
letter,  being  written  and  entrusted  to  the  messenger 
employed  in  such  cases,  she  returns  to  her  work  in  her 
upper  chamber. 

In  the  meantime  Stephen's  painting  is  nearly  fin- 
ished. The  picture  has  come  out  well,  and  the 
whole  gives  forcibly  the  impression  at  which  the  painter 
had  aimed.  It  is  the  funeral  of  a  young  girl.  The  cof- 
fin, hid  under  a  white  cloth,  is  carried  by  four  peasants. 
At  the  head  of  the  procession  three  young  girls  of  the 
Rosary- Guild,  in  white  dresses,  accompany  the  banner 
of  the  Virgin,  worked  in  silver.  They  are  followed  by 
the  priest  and  the  singers  in  their  surplices.  You  can 
not  help  feeling  deeply  touched  by  this  sympathetic 
harmony  between  this  landscape  covered  with  white 
frost  and  this  white  mourning  for  a  young  girl.  You 
tell  yourself  that  the  painter  who  has  succeeded  in  re- 
producing these  secret  affinities  must  needs  have  felt 
them  strongly  and  been  deeply  moved  by  them  him- 
self. 

At  one  moment  his  courage  forsakes  him,  and  the 
young  painter  is  tempted  to  flee  from  M.  Minique's 
house,  to  ascend  the  slopes,  to  run  to  the  farm,  to  see 
Therese  for  the  last  time,  and  to  explain  to  her  the  rea- 
son why  he  must  leave  her.  But  there  comes  to  him  an 
overwhelming  thought.  If  he  should  go  to  the  farm 
now,  he  would  appear  to  be  invoking  her  pity  and  try- 
ing to  influence  her  will  so  as  to  obtain  from  her  kind 
heart  a  Yes,  which  she  would  not  grant  him,  perhaps, 
if  she  were  left  to  herself.  No!  He  will  not  do  that! 

[3S4] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

He  will  go  away  in  silence,  and  then,  when  he  is  gone, 
he  will  write  to  her  and  give  her  a  final  explanation. 
To-morrow  night  he  will  be  in  Paris,  eighty  miles  from 
the  farm. 

He  sat  down  once  more  before  the  canvas;  his  eyes 
rested  upon  the  young  girl  who  was  carrying  the  cross; 
he  had  painted  the  head  from  a  study  of  Mademoiselle 
Desroches's  head,  which  he  had  made  at  the  farm.  It 
was  indeed  Therese,  with  her  fair  complexion  and  the 
two  bands  of  brown  hair  coming  out  beyond  the  sides 
of  her  tall  provincial  cap.  There  are  the  same  fresh 
and  frank  lips,  the  same  eyes  with  those  brilliant  black 
pupils,  resembling  black  cherries,  the  same  charming, 
though  shy  face  he  has  loved  so  dearly. 

Suddenly  it  seems  to  him  that  somebody  has  slightly 
pushed  the  door  of  the  studio,  although  the  painting  is 
between  him  and  the  entrance.  He  raises  his  eyelids 
and  suddenly  starts  up.  It  is  no  longer  the  figure 
painted  on  canvas;  it  is  Therese  in  flesh  and  blood 
who  stands  before  him. 

"  Therese!" 

Those  fresh  and  frank  lips  part  to  let  a  kind  smile 
pass  out;  those  jet-black  eyes  look  into  his  eyes,  and 
while  she,  lays  her  cape  aside,  she  says: 

"How  long  have  you  been  back  here?" 

Stephen  is  embarrassed.  All  his  heroism  has  for- 
saken him,  he  stammers  and  replies,  evasively:  "Only 
since  yesterday!" 

"Story-teller!"  says  Therese,  threatening  him  with 
her  finger. 

He  hangs  his  head  and  does  not  know  what  to  say. 
[355] 


ANDR6  THEURIET 

"You  have  been  here  six  weeks/'  she  continues, 
"why  have  you  not  come  to  see  us  at  the  farm?" 

"I  have  not  been  here  all  the  time.  I  have  been  over 
at  Chat  el,  painting — this,"  and  he  shows  her  his  "  Vil- 
lage Funeral." 

"This is  beautiful,  although  the  subject  is  so  sad.  I 
can  understand  that  this  work  has  kept  you  busy — but 
you  are  nevertheless  very  unkind,  that  you  have  never 
let  me  hear  from  you !  That  was  not  what  you  promised 
me  when  we  parted!" 

"Therese!"  exclaimed  Stephen,  "I  did  not  come 
back  to  you,  because  I  had  to  tell  you  things  that  were 
too  painful,  and  I  preferred  writing  them.  If  you  knew 
all  that  has  happened  at  Saint  Clement!" 

"I  know  it.    Celestin  has  written." 

"You  know  everything?"  he  asked  again,  blushing 
and  casting  down  his  eyes. 

"I  know  that  now  you  are  unhappy,  as  I  was  before, 
but  I  do  not  see  how  your  unhappiness  prevented  you 
from  coming  for  a  reply  to  the  proposition  which  you 
made  me  the  last  time  we  met?  Have  you  forgotten 
that?  A  simple,  pleasant  country  life  for  both  of 
us?" 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  confused  and  overcome,  so  that  he 
could  only  utter  unconnected  words,  "that  offer — I  can 
not  now — I  must  not  repeat  it.  I  am  too  wretched 
already — I  mean  to  suffer  alone!" 

"You  are  too  proud!  Well,  then,  I,  I  am  not  so 
proud,  and  since  you  could  not  prevail  on  yourself  to 
come  up  to  us,  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  accept — 

because  I  know  you  love  me,  and  because " 

[356] 


MLLE.  DESROCHES 

"Therese!"  He  has  drawn  near  to  her  and  taken 
both  her  hands. 

" Because  I  love  you!"  she  continued,  sinking  into 
his  arms. 

They  remained  thus  for  some  time,  holding  each 
other  closely,  before  that  great  silent  painting.  The 
house  is  still  buried  in  silence;  at  a  distance  only  the 
vesper  bells  continue  to  ring  out  their  slow  and  lulling 
music. 


[357 


YC 1 09688 


